


The Corring Chase Incident (A Game of Hearts pt. 4)

by zmethos



Series: A Game of Hearts [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Multi, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-11 23:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13534488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zmethos/pseuds/zmethos
Summary: Sherlock goes home to Mummy and a worried John follows to check up on him. When a neighbor is found shot, John wonders whether Sherlock may have gone too far. There is also the hint of an unsavory relationship in Sherlock's past.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This series of stories was written after the end of the first series [season] of BBC's _Sherlock_. This story in particular was my take on _The Hound of the Baskervilles_. I also chose to explore the Holmes family, and so I introduced "Mummy." (In my take on this world, Mr. Holmes is deceased. Obviously, the creators went in another direction.)

RECENT EXPERIENCE HAD taught John that if there was a chance Sherlock was being sent somewhere—or, God forbid, held somewhere against his will—a rapid response was necessary. No use asking Mycroft, though, where “home” might be, so John was left to delve into other resources.

The first thing John did was try texting Sherlock directly, though he wasn’t terribly surprised when there was no answer. Even if there had been, John wasn’t sure he’d have been able to trust it.

That was all well and good, but how was he going to find out where “home” was?

Scanning the room, filled with untidy piles of papers, books and random objects, John felt defeated before he’d even begun. The computer? Too obvious; Sherlock would never store anything so personal there.

Unless Sherlock knew that John knew that Sherlock would never store anything personal there, in which case . . . he might? Seemed unlikely, but it was a place to start. Unfortunately, the labyrinthine computer files failed to yield results. Not that John was surprised at that, either, but he was disappointed.

Three and a half stacks of random paperwork later, John was close to giving up. _Shower and something to eat_ , he decided. Although he didn’t want to waste any time, a break would help him clear his brain.

He was in the middle of making himself some toast when a thought struck him. When Sherlock had been unconscious and hospitalized not so long ago, he had left a directive, should he die, to burn his personal effects and personalty. Which meant somewhere there was something personal enough that Sherlock didn’t want it lying around after he was gone. Of course, Sherlock had a tendency to be overly guarded about some things . . . Could “home” be one of those things?

John’s eyes swung toward Sherlock’s room. His flatmate would never forgive an invasion of privacy. Then again, his flatmate might never forgive John not being there when he needed him, either. _Damned if I do . . ._

For a split second, John was resentful at having been placed in such a no-win situation. Why couldn’t he have a normal co-tenant? Someone who ate on a regular basis, knew how to do laundry, didn’t set things on fire or store body parts in the icebox?

_Because that would be boring, that’s why._

And with that, John made the decision. An angry Sherlock was better than no Sherlock at all. It was time to search his flatmate’s room.

Compared to Sherlock’s haphazard “system” of organization in the shared living space, his bedroom was almost unsettlingly void of clutter. Indeed, impeccable style aside, the simplicity bordered on monastic, and for a moment John worried that there was nothing to find. But then, Sherlock didn’t spend any especial amount of time in the room, either, the previous afternoon and evening notwithstanding. As best John could tell, his flatmate dressed there and sometimes slept there (he was just as likely to sleep on the sofa, or even in a chair), and that was about it. If Sherlock were going to store something out of the way, and assuming he wouldn’t put said item(s) in a lockbox at a bank somewhere, then his bedroom would be the place to do it.

“Right,” John said aloud to himself, “so . . .”

His eyes fell on the bedside table. It was lovely, really, made of dark wood and with a little drawer that didn’t look big enough to hold much of anything. A book maybe.

Address book?

John pulled open the drawer and indeed found a little leather-bound volume, which he picked up. He saw it had been lying on a pen.

_No, no, no!_ John dropped the book back into the drawer as if it had become hot in his hands.

_He’ll know you touched it. He always knows when you’ve touched his things._ Well, John would deal with that when the time came. He started to shut the drawer then hesitated. Diaries were for recording thoughts and feelings, weren’t they? Which wasn’t Sherlock’s sort of thing at all. He was outwardly focused, not introspective.

John picked up the book once more and opened it at random. A diagram of some sort, surrounded by written notes. He flipped to another page and found a list of names, dates, places, and more notes. It appeared the book in question was nothing more than a casebook in which Sherlock recorded information and made observations. Which made John feel less guilty about having touched it but didn’t help him in his current quest.

He put the book back again, then looked at the chest-of-drawers. Deciding that looking through Sherlock’s socks and underwear would be a last resort, John moved on to the closet. Ignoring the hanging shirts, suit coats and trousers, he went right for the boxes stacked at the bottom. They were the kind one bought to keep old pictures or letters in, exactly the sort of thing John was looking for.

As he pulled the top one out, John felt his heart rate increase. Was he nervous that he might get caught? (He almost certainly would, sooner or later.) Or excited about what he might find? But even as a part of him was asking himself to admit a deeper motivation for what he was doing, he was lifting the lid off the box.

Inside he found a bloodstained shirt, an unmarked DVD, and two lengths of rope—the remnants of their most recent adventure. John quickly closed the box and set it aside.

The containers that followed all seemed to serve a similar function. Each harbored a strange collection of memorabilia, some of which John recognized, much of which he didn’t. A wineglass with lipstick stains, a bag of hair and nail clippings, a miniature painting, a solitary sock . . . It made no sense to John, but then he supposed it wasn’t meant to.

He was down to the last three boxes and wondering whether it was worth the effort as he paused to stretch, almost falling backward when he overextended. Something caught his eye. He had to lay almost flat out on the floor to see what it was: a thin wooden chest, not more than two inches high, that had been slid into the little bit of space afforded by the chest-of-drawers’ short legs.

John slipped his hand under and slid the chest out.

_It’s a given he doesn’t use it very often_ , John thought. After all, Sherlock was taller, so how much more of a pain in the ass would it be for him to get down on the floor and pull the thing out? Maybe it was something useless that had been kicked out of the way, but John had doubts. It seemed to him as if the chest was more carefully hidden, perhaps even from its owner.

It was old, John realized when he got a better look, but well cared for in that the wood had been polished regularly enough to keep it from drying out and splintering. The initials SH had been carved in the lid and limned in gold leaf detail that was fading. A layer of dust lay over the whole of it, so now John was certain it hadn’t been handled recently.

Of course, his touching it meant he was leaving evidence of his snooping. But what other choice did he have?

John half expected the box to have a lock and key, but it didn’t; the lid was a simple hinge. He raised it.

The interior of the box was lined in dark green velvet. On the right side was a stack of letters held together with a rubber band. On the left were three hypodermic needles.

For several minutes, John forgot his original reason for searching Sherlock’s room and just stared at the syringes. He told himself there was an outside chance his flatmate had a medical condition that might require them, but he was too smart to believe it.

_Later. Think about it later._ John dragged his eyes away and refocused on the letters. Some were yellowed, a few were newer, and while some came from various names and postmarks, the bulk of them had one particular return address.

Was that the one, then? It was a shot in the dark at best, and John knew that if he wanted to be sure he would need to open one of the letters and look at the signature, but he was suddenly reluctant to go that far.

_What do you want, John?_ He ran his hands over his face, took a deep breath, and selected the most recent letter from the pile. Which, upon reflection, wasn’t all that recent, since it hadn’t been sent to Baker Street but to Kensington, where Sherlock had lived with his brother.

John made it a point not to read the letter itself, though his eye couldn’t help but pick out some words and phrases. The overall sense was one of pleading, and before he realized it, he’d read the damn thing anyway.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I know you are determined, that’s just the way you are, darling, but I do wish you’d consider staying with Mycroft a bit longer. I feel so much better knowing he’s keeping an eye out for you. And you hate to worry your poor mummy, don’t you? God knows we’ve been through enough—all of us, love, even you—without one more thing to fret about. It’s better to stick together, after all, and if I didn’t have just that much work to manage out here, you know I’d be right there with my two boys._

_At the very least then, dear, do promise that you’ll keep in touch with Mycroft and that you’ll come visit me on occasion. I know being buried out here bores you to tears, and I’m no fun compared to all your London friends and goings on, but if you’ll just think of me now and again, since Mycroft stays so busy and all. You’re not so angry, are you, that you wouldn’t come see me? Or if not for me, do it for the horses? You know I’m useless with them. I mostly let Sir Henry and Elyse and their friends ride them, since I never do and it’s the only way they’ll get any exercise. The horses, I mean, not Sir Henry and Elyse. I don’t know about their friends._

_Well then, I won’t bore you with all the things I’ve been up to, but you must send me your new address when you have one. I’d call, but you never answer your phone, which makes me wonder why you even have one. But I won’t nag. Give Mycroft my love, and try not to be too angry with him, either; we only did what was best, and I’m sure deep down you know that too._

There was no closing, just a signature written with such flourish that John couldn’t quite make it out. It seemed to start with a G or J. But whatever her name, it was clear the letter had come from Sherlock’s mother. Which meant there was a fair chance the return address was the same place Mycroft had sent Sherlock that morning.

John re-banded the remaining correspondence and put the chest back where he’d found it. He took the time to put the other memento boxes back in the closet as well, though he knew they were impossibly out of order. But better to leave as little evidence as possible.

Then John took the one letter with him out to the computer and mapped the address. As best he could tell, it was more or less the middle of nowhere. Which meant Mycroft had probably sent Sherlock in a car, and John would need one, too.

John briefly considered calling his sister and asking to borrow her car, but he knew it would only lead to some overblown conversation that he didn’t have time for. Well, and he also didn’t like to ask Harry for anything. She was the type to remind you when she’d done something nice for you, as if you owed her. So in the end, despite the expense, he hired a car and used the GPS software on the phone Harry had given him to plan the route.

He didn’t particularly enjoy driving, and it had been a while since he’d last done so, but at least a fair portion of the route was the A1, which didn’t require too much thought. He’d been driving for two hours or so when the directions sent him off onto rural roads, and despite the tension that had haunted him all morning—he’d woken up with it, hadn’t he?—the deserted road and spring fields caused him to relax a little. Eventually he opened the car windows for some fresh air.

At the point his phone notified him that he had “arrived at his destination,” John couldn’t immediately see what or where that destination was. The road he was on appeared to go on indefinitely, and there was no other road. So what was he supposed to do? Get out and search the field?

John pulled the car over to think. The letters had come from _somewhere_ , after all, and this was the address. John’s eyes traveled along the line of the fence that bordered an expanse of what would soon be green grass, though it being early spring, everything was only just sprouting.

And then he saw it. A break in the fence.

John pulled the car up to the gap and, yes, there was an unpaved drive leading away and down toward a stand of trees. He didn’t realize just how large a stand until he got closer.

The house itself was not as impressive as the land around it; it stood in a cleared area with the trees stretching off around it, it’s red brick façade fronted with a Doric portico. It was large enough, John figured, but the countryside would have many much larger houses. This was not the seat of an earl, but it was the home of a gentleman.

Suddenly John felt a bit foolish for having come all the way out there.

But since he had . . .

Drawing in another deep breath of fresh air, John mounted the steps and went to the door. It opened before he could even get up the nerve to ring the bell, and before him stood a thin, fine-boned woman with short, silver-white hair and eyes so pale a blue they almost seemed clear. She stood erect and her severe expression as she pulled open the door made John’s mind go blank, same as it always had when he’d been in trouble at school and had no good explanation to offer his teacher.

And then, just as John was ready to begin stammering some kind of excuse for his being there, the woman broke into a smile. “Why, it’s John, isn’t it? Sherlock didn’t say you were coming.” And with that she had his arm and was towing him into the house.

“Well, I don’t think he was expecting me, actually,” said John.

The entrance hall gave directly onto an impressive staircase, but this woman was leading John into a room to the right.

“I’m sorry, but . . . Are you his mother?” John asked.

“Of course! Oh, but you see, I recognized you from the blog. Geraldine Holmes, darling, but you can call me Gerrie.” She patted his arm and pushed him toward an armchair that seemed almost too nice to sit on. “Do you want tea? Something to eat? Boys living on their own the way you two do, I’m sure you don’t eat properly.”

“We, uh, manage.” John couldn’t stop himself from looking around. The room seemed impossibly white; how did it stay clean?

“1760. It’s a Grade II, so I spend a lot of time and money making sure it stays just so.” Gerrie heaved a dramatic sigh as she perched herself on the edge of the chair opposite. “Would be easier if I could get the boys home more often.”

“I see.”

“Lucky to have Sherlock for a bit, though. Mycroft makes it once a quarter, but Sherlock usually only bothers at Christmas. Can’t think what might have brought him here now . . .” And she pinned John with a wide-eyed look that clearly invited him to confide in her.

John swallowed. “Actually, that’s what I’m wondering too.”

Gerrie sat back in the chair, failing to hide her disappointment. But moments later she rallied, and sitting up again she said, “Well, I’m that glad that he has you to look after him, since he won’t let Mycroft. And you a doctor besides. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you when he gets in. Not much fun for him, having only his mum for company.” And she heaved another sigh, offering John the opportunity to contradict this last statement.

But John’s mind was elsewhere. “He went somewhere? Didn’t he only just get here?”

“Hardly said hello,” Gerrie told him. “Went straight for the stables. He thinks I don’t take care of the horses; you’d think he’d come home more often to see to them himself. That’s what Jeremy is for, anyway.”

John was lost. “Jeremy?”

“He handles the heavy work and Chloe does the rest. Mycroft makes sure I have the help I need. Good of him, considering how busy he is.”

“Yes,” John echoed absently, “very good of him.” He rose from the chair and Gerrie followed suit. “I, uh, really only came to make sure Sherlock was all right; he left rather suddenly. But it seems as if—”

Gerrie put her hand on his arm again. “You can’t go already! I’ll have Chloe bring some tea.”

The sound of footsteps started as faint, coming from somewhere at the back of the house and getting steadily louder. Gerrie closed her eyes and shook her head, the picture of parental disappointment. “He’s left his boots on.”

“Mum? I think Pharaoh—” Sherlock appeared in the doorway and froze, his eyes moving between his mother, her hand still on John’s arm, and his flatmate. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here, sweetheart,” Gerrie answered.

“Not you, Mother.”

Gerrie looked to John. “It’s ‘Mother’ now. It’s only ‘Mother’ when he’s upset with me.” She turned to her son. “And it’s no use being rude to a guest. Go get yourself cleaned up; you smell like a barn. Then you can join us for tea, if you can be civil.”

John had seldom seen Sherlock at such a loss; from the way he clenched his jaw, it was clear he was biting back any number of potential responses. Yet he only turned his head and drew in his breath before stalking off with nothing more to say.

“I should probably just go,” said John.

“Nonsense,” Gerrie declared. “Can’t let him have his way by acting like that. Now come along to the kitchen and we’ll see if we can’t find Chloe. She’s not going to be very happy when she sees the mess Sherlock’s made with those boots . . .” She steered John down the hall, past the staircase, toward the back of the house until they came to a room where the red brick had not been plastered over and a large fireplace still dominated one wall. The rest, however, had been updated with stone countertops, distressed wood cabinetry, and shiny appliances.

“The stone and wood come directly from the land here at Weald House,” Gerrie informed John proudly. “Now you sit—” She indicated a polished wood table situated near two windows at the far end of the room. “And I’ll start the water. I wonder where Chloe could be?”

“Oh, no,” said John, “you should sit and let me . . .”

“I’m neither old nor infirm, John,” Gerrie retorted kindly but firmly. “And you don’t know where we keep everything anyway.” She began opening cabinets and pulling out the kettle and cups while John hung back, unwilling to sit while she busied herself. But at one point she hesitated. “John, darling, I can’t reach the teapot; can you just—” She pointed to a shelf just beyond her reach, and John moved to oblige her, glad to feel useful. Then he felt a hand on the small of his back and nearly dropped the damn thing.  
How on earth had such a touchy-feely mother raised someone like Sherlock? Or even Mycroft, for that matter?

“John.” Sherlock’s voice cut through the kitchen. “I need to speak with you.”

“We’re about to have tea, Sherlock,” said Gerrie.

“It will only take a minute, Mother.”

“Then it can wait until after,” Gerrie reasoned. She pointed at the cabinet again. “The platter there, if you please, John.”

John shot Sherlock a helpless look as he set the oversized plate on the counter so Gerrie could arrange a variety of biscuits on it. She fussed over it so, he felt it was going to be a shame to ruin her careful design by actually eating any.

“You go sit now,” Gerrie directed, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “It’s almost ready.”

John glanced again at Sherlock, who hadn’t moved, and suddenly felt as if putting additional space between them wouldn’t be a bad thing. So he walked to the far end of the kitchen and took a seat. Glancing out the window, he saw something that gave him pause. “There’s a pond.”

“A large pond or a small lake, depending on who you’re talking to,” Gerrie said, carrying over the teapot and cups on a tray. “Sherlock, bring the biscuits.”

John made it a point not to look at his flatmate this time as he wondered whether Sherlock would do as he’d been told. There seemed to be a long wait, but at last Sherlock came the rest of the way into the kitchen, took the platter off the counter, and brought it to the table.

“Thank you,” said Gerrie as she poured. “Aren’t you going to sit?”

“No. I wouldn’t dream of intruding on your sweet and vapid little conversation. When you’re done—”

At which point Gerrie slapped him, hard enough that John let out a startled, “Oh!”

“You will not be rude, either to me or to guests in this house.”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and composed himself. “When you’re done,” he said again, and John could hear the strain as Sherlock worked to keep his temper leashed, “send John to the morning room so we can talk. Please.”

“But we wanted to hear about your ride, dear,” Gerrie told him, all warmth returned. “You were saying something about Pharaoh?”

“He needs new shoes,” said Sherlock, already turning to leave.

“Well goodness, no use telling me,” Gerrie said to his back. “Let Jeremy know.”

But Sherlock didn’t answer.

Gerrie turned back to her guest. “Now, John, have a biscuit; I know you must be hungry after driving all the way out here.”

John dragged his eyes from the place Sherlock had exited and forced himself to engage in “vapid” conversation, wherein he learned that Sherlock’s mother had been a stage actress before meeting and marrying Terrence Holmes (explained a lot, John felt) and that the family came from a line of country squires, though Weald House had been given to an ancestor as payment for services of some kind.

“The big house, you know, where Sir Henry lives—that’s Corring Hall. And this little thing is just something one of the Baskervilles built for a daughter as a wedding present or some such,” Gerrie expounded. “Mycroft would know the details; he’s done significant research on the subject.”

“Takes a fair amount of pride in the family name, doesn’t he,” John mused.

“He’s an important man,” said Gerrie, pegging John with steely regard, “and our name is his calling card. _None_ of us can afford to have it mismanaged.”

John nodded as if he understood, though he wasn’t sure he did, exactly. He felt more like he was being warned of something. “I should probably . . . Need to drive back and all . . .”

“You won’t stay?” Gerrie asked, dissolving once more into impeccable hostess. _Actress indeed_ , John thought.

What he said was, “No, I didn’t bring anything. Just came to check on Sherlock, but he seems . . . fine . . .”

Gerrie leaned forward conspiratorially. “Has he been well?”

“He’s been . . . his usual self . . .”

“Mycroft made it sound as if he’d been ill. And now here you are, a doctor—”

“I’m only here as a friend, really.” John forced himself to meet Gerrie’s searching gaze.

Eventually she sat back, evidently satisfied. “I’ll clean up in here,” she said, rising, “and you go find Sherlock before he gets into a mood.”

_Too late for that_ , John supposed. He felt bad about leaving her with the tea dishes but did as he was told because it was becoming increasingly clear that Gerrie Holmes was not someone to cross.


	2. Chapter 2

JOHN MADE HIS way back down the hall toward the entry, wondering which was the morning room. He passed the formal dining room, which looked able to fit two dozen comfortably; some kind of library; a smaller room that might have been an office given the desk that took up most of the space; and finally he was back to the front of the house, with the one reception room he’d already seen on one side of the staircase and . . . Sherlock turning circles in the room opposite.

John cleared his throat and Sherlock whirled around to face him. “Why are you here?” the detective asked without preamble.

“I only came to make sure you’re all right,” John told him. “Why are _you_ here?”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted toward the tall windows that fronted the room, giving a view of the portico outside. “Mycroft suggested . . .” His voice trailed.

“And since when do you do anything Mycroft suggests?”

Sherlock turned his head and stared at John so long, John began to think his flatmate hadn’t heard him. But then suddenly Sherlock said, “Yes, well, for once I took his point.”

“Did he threaten you?” John asked.

“He’s threatened me before, John, it’s never come to anything.”

“So . . . you wanted to come home? I mean, it’s fine, whatever,” John added hastily. “But you could have just left a note or answered my text or something to save me the trouble.”

But Sherlock’s mind had already moved on. “How did you find me?”

“Mycroft said he’d sent you home.”

“He told you where? Gave you the address?” When John hesitated, Sherlock pressed, “He wanted you to come here?”

“I don’t— No,” John finally admitted, “he didn’t give me the address or suggest that I come. So I’ll just go now, and see you when you get back to London. Any idea when that might be?”

“He told you for a reason,” Sherlock said half to himself.

“He told me so I wouldn’t panic when you turned up missing,” John retorted.

“He knew you’d look,” Sherlock persisted. “The question is, what did he want you to find?”

John thought this might be the moment to bring up the needles, but before he could speak, movement outside the windows brought him up short. A woman—an extremely pretty woman—was mounting the stairs to the portico.

Sherlock followed John’s gaze and cursed through his teeth as the bell rang. He froze for second, then jumped to close the morning room door while instructing John, “Dishevel yourself.”

“What?”

“Just—” Sherlock strode over and mussed John’s hair, then ran a firm thumb over John’s lips while compressing his own. After undoing the two topmost buttons of his shirt, Sherlock flung himself onto the sofa, pulling John down next to him.

“Sorry,” John said, “but what are we doing exactly?”

“Shh.”

From out in the entry there came a flurry of voices.

“Miss Baskerville.”

“Oh, Chloe, don’t bother. Elyse! Come in!”

“Mrs. Holmes. I just thought I’d—”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Gerrie, dear. And I think we both know why you’re here.” There was a pause. “I thought they were in there.”

Sherlock threw an arm behind John and pulled him closer. “Cuddle up.”

John opened his mouth but couldn’t get any sound to come out before the morning room door opened.

“Mum, we’re busy.”

There was a minute—it felt like an eternity to John—during which no one moved or spoke. Then Gerrie said, “Well, Elyse has come all the way over to see you. It’s been ages, after all, and you see John all the time.”

Sherlock eyed John as if he were honestly thinking it over. “So I do,” he said at length and stood. After making sure his legs wouldn’t buckle beneath him, John did as well.

“Miss Baskerville,” said Sherlock, “allow me to present Dr. John Watson; Dr. Watson, this is Miss Baskerville.”

Gerrie’s face relaxed into benign approval at her son’s pretty show of manners. She and Elyse entered the room, and Gerrie made for the sofa, with Elyse following, which sent the two men into separate armchairs.

“Sherlock and Elyse’s brother are of an age,” Gerrie informed John. “So, you see, they’ve grown up together.”

“Indeed, she’s like a sister to me,” Sherlock offered, earning a warning glare from his mother.

John found himself unable to take his eyes off Elyse Baskerville. Her fair hair caught the fading daylight coming through the windows, and her blue eyes picked up the color of the rug. It was as if she’d been made for the room, in John’s estimation, a dainty sort of—

“It’s impolite to stare,” Sherlock intoned quietly.

John started. “Right, sorry, miles away. So, uh, Miss Baskerville, your brother is Sir Henry Baskerville?”

Elyse smiled shyly. “Yes. Do you know him?”

“Only by reputation. Known for his foxhounds, isn’t he?”

“Primarily,” Elyse agreed, “though he has several dogs of other breeds.”

“His pride and joy,” said Sherlock.

If Elyse picked up on the sarcasm, she was too polite to show it. “Yes,” she said again, turning her smile toward Sherlock. “And how is London?”

“Busy.”

“You know how Sherlock is, Elyse,” Gerrie put in, “can’t sit still for long. But we’ll see him settled soon enough, I’m sure.”

“I am settled, Mum. I’m settled in London.”

Elyse’s brow furrowed slightly. “I think . . . I wouldn’t mind living in the city . . .”

John’s eyes darted between Elyse and Sherlock as he began to understand. _Oh dear._

“Is something wrong, John?” Gerrie asked him.

“No! No, I mean, I was just thinking. That I should be going. Soon.”

“Do you live near here?” asked Elyse.

“He lives with me,” said Sherlock. “I just wanted him to meet Mum.” Then turning to John he added, “Don’t worry about driving all the way back for your bag, John; I’ll have one of Mycroft’s people swing by and bring it out.”

John stole a glance at Elyse, whose brow was furrowed again as if trying to solve a puzzle without having a picture to go by. But then Gerrie was standing, and Elyse stood too, so John and Sherlock rose as well, and after a round of “nice to meet you” and “good-bye,” Gerrie was leading Elyse out of the room.

“What. Was that?” John asked once he felt it was safe to speak again.

“Long story, but I’m sure you got the gist of it.” Sherlock had his phone out.

“I’m not really staying, you know.”

“Of course you are. There. Mycroft’s assistant will bring your things. What do you need besides clothes?”

“Sanity?”

Sherlock merely waited.

“Or maybe just my toothbrush,” said John with a sigh.

“We should go before Mother gets back,” said Sherlock.

“Go where?” asked John.

“Anywhere but here.” Sherlock craned his head around the open door and listened. In the entry, a woman whose dark hair was pulled into a bun was wiping up the marble flooring; she shot Sherlock a glare but didn’t say anything.

“We’ll go for a walk,” Sherlock decided. “Out the back, round the pond.”

“Is that safe?”

“Unless you’re planning to shove me in.”

“Only as a last resort,” John said.

Sherlock motioned for silence as they started back toward the kitchen. He paused outside a closed door, the one for the library, John thought. It had been open earlier. He looked a question at Sherlock, who gave one nod then moved on.

John hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until they stepped out the kitchen door. He took in a deep lungful of fresh air and tried to relax as he followed Sherlock along the gravel walk that cut across the expanse of green that led to the pond. The pond itself was crowded by more of the trees that stood around the house; when they filled out for spring and summer, John suspected the water would be almost completely hidden. As it was, the trees had begun to leaf, but John could still make out a structure that he assumed was some kind of boathouse.

Once they’d come to the part of the path that began to wind around the margin, Sherlock slackened his pace a bit. John waited for his companion to say something, but as the minutes stretched on, he finally took it upon himself to break the silence. “So . . . Why aren’t we just going back to London again?”

“I promised Mycroft I’d stay at least the week.”

John waited for more, but evidently that was all the explanation he was going to get. “And why is that?” he asked. When Sherlock still didn’t answer, John changed the subject. “Miss Baskerville is a lovely young lady.”

“Mm.”

Now John was getting annoyed. “Can I go back to London now? Since you don’t really need me after all?”

“Of course I need you,” said Sherlock. “You’ve given me something to think about at least; I was worried the week was going to be dull.”

“So glad I could help,” John muttered.

“We need to figure out Mycroft’s motive,” Sherlock went on.

“For sending you here?”

“For sending _you_ here.”

“He didn’t. I told you. I—” John gathered his courage. “I dug around until I found the address.” He did a quick check of Sherlock’s features, but if his flatmate was angry, he didn’t show it.

“Dug around where?”

“It wasn’t easy to find,” John told him, his voice tight with defensiveness. “And I only did it because I wasn’t sure what was going on, whether you were really okay. Yesterday you didn’t seem okay at all.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, John, except predictability. You did exactly what Mycroft knew you would, what he wanted you to do. We need to know why he wanted you to do it.”

“Maybe he wanted me to find the needles,” John suggested. “Do you want to explain those?”

“Don’t be childish; you know what they are. And if I’ve taught you any kind of deductive skills, you also know they haven’t been used in ages.”

“Then why keep them?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“You don’t still have drugs somewhere?” John pressed.

But all Sherlock said was, “What else did you find?”

“Nothing much. The letters, of course.”

Sherlock froze, and John nearly walked past him. When John turned, he saw the color had left Sherlock’s face. “Did you read them?”

“No! I mean, just the one.”

Sherlock’s eyes searched John’s face. “And which one would that be?”

John’s mind went temporarily blank. “Uh, I don’t know. The most recent one? From your mother?”

Sherlock visibly relaxed and began to walk again. “You’re not lying; I’d know if you were.”

“Did Mycroft want me to read them?” John asked.

“No way to know. Yet.”

“And how would he even know about them?” John wondered.

But Sherlock had stopped walking again and was now looking behind him, where in the distance someone was hurrying after them.

“Sherlock Holmes!” the rapidly nearing figure called, and Sherlock groaned aloud.

“Who’s that?” John asked.

Sherlock sighed. “Sir Henry Baskerville.”

As Henry approached, John could see a slight family resemblance between him and his sister. He had the same fair hair sticking out from under his flat cap and his eyes were equally blue. But Henry’s skin was darker, more lined from time spent out in the sun, and while he was not especially tall—possibly not that much taller than Elyse—he was squarely and solidly built.

“Sherlock,” a breathless Henry panted, “where is Bailey?”

John watched his flatmate’s face carefully, but it remained blank. “Sorry, Henry, I’m not sure who you mean. I’ve been away, in case it’s escaped you.”

“Bailey!” Henry sputtered.

“A dog?” John surmised.

“Not just a dog! One of my leaders!” Henry halted long enough to cock an eye in John’s direction. “Who’re you?”

When it became clear Sherlock wasn’t going to make an introduction, John offered his hand. “John Watson.”

“Henry Baskerville,” said Henry, giving John’s hand a firm shake. “You’re a sight smarter than Sherlock here, I’ll warrant.”

Sherlock huffed with impatience. “Why on earth would I know where your dog is, Henry? And what’s more, why should I care?”

“You’ve always hated my dogs,” Henry accused.

“So?”

“So I wouldn’t put it past you to have done something to them.”

“More than one?” Sherlock asked.

“Just the one,” said Henry, his teeth clenched. “For the moment.”

John laughed and shook his head. “Sherlock’s not the type to waste his efforts on a dog. Much less more than one.”

Sherlock shot John a look that was clearly meant to shut him up. Then turning back to Henry, he asked, “Where and when did you last see . . . Bailey, was it?”

“This morning. I took the pack on a drag hunt.”

“And Bailey returned with the other dogs?”

“Of course.”

“And the dogs are kept where when you aren’t hunting?” Sherlock persisted.

“They roam the grounds,” said Henry.

“Penned?”

“Yes.”

“Except sometimes they get loose, as we both know,” said Sherlock.

“But they never go far.”

“Almost never.”

Henry snorted. “If this is about the time—”

“This is about today. Bailey. Loose from his pen. Well, I haven’t seen him. I suggest you set your other dogs on his trail.” Sherlock turned to go.

Henry stopped him with a question. “Did Elyse come by yet?”

Sherlock hesitated but didn’t answer.

“You should have seen her light up when she heard you were back,” Henry went on. “She’s waiting for you to make her happy, Sherlock.”

“I don’t make anybody happy.” And with that, Sherlock stalked off, leaving John to grimace apologetically at Henry before hurrying to catch up.

“I take it there’s an, um, understanding concerning you and Miss Baskerville?” John asked once he’d caught his breath again.

“There’s an assumption. Which no one has ever bothered to make explicit by uttering aloud.”

“And which you’ve never bothered to disabuse them of,” John supplied.

“I’ve made myself scarce,” said Sherlock.

“You don’t come home because you’re avoiding Miss Baskerville?”

“It’s only one reason of many.”

“Then why not just say something? Lovely girl like that, she’d have any number of offers.”

“You’d be first in line, I take it,” Sherlock snapped, then sighed. “She would have her choice of suitors, certainly, if her brother didn’t keep her leashed like one of his damn dogs.”

John grinned. “Well! You do have a heart after all!”

“I carry it with me from time to time.”

They walked along in companionable silence for a bit before John asked, “But why would Henry let his sister marry you, of all people?” When Sherlock winced, John was forced to admit, “I didn’t mean that like it sounded.”

“Think about it, John. It’s the oldest reason in the book; he wants to reintroduce old holdings into the family’s current property.”

It took a minute for John to sort out what Sherlock was saying. “The house?”

“We own a fair portion of the land here, including the majority of the Chase.”

“The Chase?”

“We’re coming up on it now,” said Sherlock, pointing. “This wooded area on the far side of the pond that stretches up to the clearing around Corring Hall.”

“Prime hunting,” John deduced and was inordinately pleased when Sherlock nodded agreement.

“If it were legal,” Sherlock reminded him.

“And Sir Henry Baskerville is a law-abiding citizen?” asked John.

Sherlock only shrugged.

“But why not set his sister up with Mycroft, since he’s the oldest?”

Pulling a face, Sherlock said, “Even Henry wouldn’t go that far. Though it would make things easier on me if he would.”

John felt a spark of irritation. “So you’re just going to keep stringing her along?”

“That’s what you’re for.”

John had a feeling he wouldn’t like where this conversation was headed. “Why not just tell her?”

“Whenever a man tells a woman something, she invariably views it as an opportunity to redouble her efforts in the hopes of changing his mind,” said Sherlock. “No, she’ll either need to come to the conclusion on her own or have someone else—another woman would be best—tell her.”

“You have strange ideas about people,” said John.

“People are strange, John. Predictability doesn’t negate oddity.”

John refrained from pointing out that Sherlock himself was one of the strangest people he’d ever met. Instead he asked, “So what do you want me to do? Win her affection away from you somehow?”

To John’s surprise, Sherlock actually laughed. “It wouldn’t work. Which is no reflection on you,” the detective added swiftly upon seeing John’s scowl, “or me, for that matter. Elyse has been told what to want for so long, she’s incapable of thinking for herself.”

“Well I’m not another woman, so I suppose my telling her wouldn’t do any good.”

“She doesn’t know you well enough to trust you. If Mother did it, that would work, but I don’t think Mother would ever—Ah, you can get the best view of the house from here.”

John turned and saw that they’d made it about halfway around the pond now. Looking across it, he realized they’d been walking slightly uphill, too; the pond lay a little below them and the house farther down the slope still, just past the tree line.

“It’s truly lovely, Sherlock.”

But Sherlock was frowning. “All this fresh air gives me a headache.” He resumed walking, his pace faster than before. “What will you do with it, do you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“The house is mine, part of what Father left me.”

John looked toward the house again, but they were coming down again now and the trees were beginning to mask the building. He dropped his eyes, trying to think of something to say, and then saw—

“Sherlock. Dog prints.” John bent for a closer look. The path was gravel, but there was mud on either side.

Sherlock stopped and turned. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Damn creature came after me during my ride.”

“Sir Henry’s dog? Bailey?”

“Probably.” Sherlock began to press the prints away with his shoe.

John rose. “So you did see it?”

“I shot it.”

John felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. “Shot it?”

Sherlock, now done destroying the evidence, moved on, leaving John to catch up. “Threw it in the pond. How do you think my boots got so muddy?”

“I don’t know. The stable?”

“Why would the stable be muddy? Honestly, John, _think_ about things.” He gestured at the ground near the pond, and John saw they were passing deep set boot prints that led to the water and back.

“No hoof prints, though,” John murmured.

“Left Pharaoh on the path,” Sherlock told him.

John wasn’t sure what to say. He could tax Sherlock with having shot a neighbor’s dog, but he didn’t see that it would do any good. So he backtracked. “So how can I help with Miss Baskerville?”

“You don’t have to do anything in particular. Just follow my lead.”

John had done that before, of course, and it usually led to trouble. He glanced uneasily at Sherlock, who rewarded him with lifted brows and a half smile.

“It will make this visit far more entertaining,” the detective promised.

John sighed with resignation. “How can I say no to that?”

Moving with renewed purpose, Sherlock made short work of the remainder of the path around the pond, leaving John worrying he might have to break into a jog to keep up. They passed the little boathouse, coming at it from the other side this time, before coming to the small lawn that separated the pond from the house. John followed Sherlock back through the kitchen, which smelled fantastic, reminding John he was running solely on toast and some tea biscuits.

“Does your mother cook?” John asked.

“Not without injuring people.” Sherlock paused to peek into the oven. “Looks like Chloe’s killed the fatted calf. I wonder . . .” He closed the oven door. “What day is it?”

“Sunday. Why?”

“We should check that your clothes have arrived; Mother will expect us to dress for dinner.”

John had a moment of panic. “Dress how?”

Sherlock cast an eye over John’s worn jumper and jeans. “I see what you mean. We’ll see what we can do; we have to find your things first.” He turned, ready to go, just as Chloe stepped through the doorway. She froze, her big dark eyes trained on Sherlock, watching him the way a person might watch a dangerous animal.

“Chloe,” Sherlock said, “has John’s bag arrived?”

She flicked a glance in John’s direction, then brought her gaze back to Sherlock. “Yes, sir.”

There was a moment of silence before Sherlock allowed some of his impatience to show. “And where did you put it?”

“Your mother had me put it in the yellow guest room.”

“Yellow? That won’t work.” He looked at John. “We’ll put you in the green room.”

“Your mother was very specific, sir,” said Chloe.

“I’m sure she was. Just make sure the green room has fresh linens,” said Sherlock. “Come, John, I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

Chloe stepped back out of the way as Sherlock moved for the door, John following behind him. “Is she frightened of you?” John asked once they’d made it part way down the hall.

“Who, Chloe? I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Does she have a reason to be frightened of you?” John pressed as he followed Sherlock up the stairs.

“Not that I’m aware of, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a reason she considers to be valid.” They made the landing for the second floor, and Sherlock pointed to one side. “That’s the long gallery there.”

John looked and saw a pair of ornate double doors at the far end of the corridor, with a matching set at the closer end.

“All the bedrooms are on the opposite side,” Sherlock continued.

“And come in a variety of colors,” John added.

“That’s Mother; never met a color she didn’t like. Yellow . . .” Sherlock seemed to be considering the array of doors. 

“What made you want to move me to green?”

“Because the green room has a connecting door to the blue room, and my room is blue. Or so she says.”

“You disagree? About the actual color of the room?” John asked.

“You’ll see what I mean.” Sherlock pointed as he walked himself through the placement of bedrooms. “Mum,” he said, pointing to the foremost door. “Mycroft’s is there . . .” He indicated the middle door.

“What color is his room?” John wondered.

“Beige. Chose it himself.”

“And you chose blue?”

“No one asked me. This one has to be yellow.” Sherlock started for the door between his mother’s and Mycroft’s.

John followed Sherlock into the room in question. The walls were papered in a butter-hued floral pattern; the rug was a cornsilk-and-brown Oriental; the huge four-poster bed was covered in amber-colored down. “Well there’s no question that it’s yellow,” John remarked.

A door on the other side of the bed swung open and Gerrie peeked through. “There you are. Where did the two of you disappear to?”

“Where is John’s bag?” Sherlock asked.

“In the Hepplewhite, dear. The garment bag, too.”

As far as John knew, he didn’t own a garment bag. Or anything one would put in a garment bag. Sherlock had the same reaction, John noticed, because he hesitated before walking over to the wardrobe.

“What are you doing?” Gerrie asked when Sherlock removed the items.

“Putting John in the green room.”

“But the green room isn’t half as nice as this one,” Gerrie protested.

“I need him closer to me,” Sherlock told her. “As my doctor,” he added unconvincingly.

That reminded John of something. “I should check your ribs.”

“His ribs?” Gerrie’s voice was sharp.

But Sherlock was frowning thoughtfully at his mother. “You put him in the room that connects to yours?”

“It’s the nicest one,” Gerrie said again.

Sherlock handed John the garment bag as he exited. “Let me show you your room.”

“Did I miss something?” John asked as he followed Sherlock to the far end of the hall.

“Only that Mother isn’t terribly selective when it comes to men. You can imagine what color her room is.”

John felt like this should be an easy one, but he was drawing a blank. “No, actually, I can’t.”

“Scarlet.” Sherlock dropped the traveling case—which was recognizable as John’s—and opened the door to the green room, which John found to be much like the yellow one, though perhaps slightly smaller and with fewer flowers in the décor. “That door passes through a shared dressing room; you can hang your bag in there.”

“It’s not my bag, and you know it,” said John.

“So open it,” Sherlock told him, but John saw he was preoccupied.

“You’re not curious?”

Sherlock had disappeared into what seemed to be a huge closet. “I don’t think there’s anything to be curious about. Mycroft would have known you’d need . . .” He didn’t finish the thought.

John sighed and threw the garment bag on the bed before going back for his weekender, which was still sitting in the hall. As he grabbed it, Gerrie stuck her head out of the other guest room and said, “Don’t be afraid to tell him no if you like the yellow room better.”

“This one is fine,” John assured her, adding lamely, “I like green.” He grabbed his bag and beat a hasty retreat, only to be startled at finding Sherlock pulling what seemed to be an inordinate amount of clothes from the garment bag. “What are you doing?”

“I _was_ curious. Or more, I was worried he’d have you dressing like him.” Sherlock pulled out a very simple navy suit coupled with a white dress shirt. “But no, this should do nicely.”

“Glad to hear it passes inspection,” said John, snatching it from Sherlock’s grasp. Unfazed, Sherlock moved on to the next one. “What’s that?” John asked.

“Formal wear. If we’re asked to dine at Corring, you’ll need it.” Curiosity satisfied, Sherlock dropped the dinner jacket onto the bed and wandered back into the closet.

“You could at least hang it up!” John called after him. He craned his head and realized he could see right through the dressing room into the next bedroom. Which, from the slice John was privy to, wasn’t so much blue as grey.

His own curiosity piqued, John took his new clothes to the closet to hang them, then poked his head into Sherlock’s room. The walls were hung in dove moire, the bedspread was iceberg blue with cerulean stripes, and the rug was Wedgwood in hue. The overall effect was of an encapsulated rainy day.

“It’s blue,” John decided, “in demeanor, anyway.”

“Mmm,” said Sherlock from where he stood at one of the windows. It was the room’s saving grace that it was at the corner of the house and had windows on two sides. “You’ll want to use this bathroom,” he said, pointing to a door.

“Mine doesn’t have one then?” John asked, wondering if that was what made the yellow room nicer.

“Of course it does. But it will look strange if we don’t share.”

John started to think about that, then shook it off. “Let me check your tapes.”

“I took them off. The way they pulled would have made it uncomfortable to ride.”

“Then you shouldn’t have been riding,” said John.

But Sherlock only ran his hands over his face and said, “Go get dressed, John.”

Resisting the urge to slam the dressing room door behind him, John walked back through to his room, pausing to grab the suit on the way. He stopped short when he realized he had no dress socks or shoes.

Or did he?

Laying the suit out on the bed, he opened his bag and started digging past the few familiar items and a number of unfamiliar ones as well. (What were those? Silk pajamas? How could it possibly matter what he slept in?) He was rewarded when he found a shiny pair of shoes at the bottom. The left shoe had dress socks neatly inserted into it.

The right shoe held a folded piece of paper.

_Mycroft left me a note?_ But the paper appeared older than that. It was the kind of lined notepaper students might use, folded in the way a letter would be, and slightly yellowed with age.

_Give it to Sherlock_ , John told himself. But another part of him responded that if Mycroft had meant it for Sherlock, he wouldn’t have hidden it in John’s shoe.

_Whose side are you on?_ John asked himself. _You don’t owe Mycroft anything._

He looked over at the closed closet door and asked himself another question: _What do you want?_

John sat down on the bed and unfolded the letter.

It was addressed to Sherlock, but as there was no date on it, John had no way of discerning just how old the letter was. The ink had started to fade a little, or else the writer had not pressed down very hard when writing; this person did not use bold strokes, which denoted a lack of confidence—assuming Sherlock’s assertions regarding handwriting were to be believed.

John’s eyes dropped to the bottom of the page. The letter was signed “Yours Always, Charles.” No one Sherlock had ever mentioned that John could remember. Which could mean that it wasn’t important, or that it was so old it didn’t bear comment, or simply that it wasn’t something (someone) Sherlock thought John should know.

But evidently Mycroft thought it was significant.

So John went back to the beginning of the letter.

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_Never think I blame you for all that has happened, or even your brother, for he was only doing what older brothers are expected to do. This is mostly my own fault for not planning our escape sooner. As it was, I hoped to at least make it through to the end of term, despite the heightened risk caused by lingering._

_Neither should you doubt my devotion; I was ready to take you with me—or really, to take you wherever you chose for us to go. The world was waiting for us. It will wait a little longer._

_This is the only letter I’m likely to get to you; even having this one reach you has required more nefarious dealings than I ever thought possible. You know the stipulations of my incarceration, that I am not to contact you. And certainly they will not let you write me, either. That is the singular cruelty of the situation. Being severed from you is far more painful than any amount of time spent in a cage._

_I already miss the warmth of your body, the smell of you, all the—_

Here was the point at which John stopped reading. Why on earth would Mycroft send this? John couldn’t think of any reason he should be made party to such a clearly personal missive.

He glanced back at the letter, skipping the intimate details and going straight to the last paragraph.

_When my sentence is over, I promise to come find you, regardless of any restraining order your brother and his people might throw at me._

Was this it, then? Was Mycroft warning him that Charles—whoever he might be—was loose? Then how old was the letter? How long had the sentence been? Why not just warn Sherlock directly?

Then again, maybe Sherlock would be happy to see this Charles again . . . Was Mycroft attempting to position John between the two of them?

John sighed and folded the paper, not bothering with the additional, long-winded vows of eternal ardor that finished it. Without knowing who Charles was or how attached Sherlock might be to him, John had little to go forward with. He could ask Sherlock, he supposed, but John could only envision Sherlock having a negative reaction to such questions, or at best no reaction at all. In any case, storming into Sherlock’s room and demanding to know who Charles was didn’t seem like the right way to go about things. Especially not just before dinner.

John started to put the letter back in his shoe, then remembered he needed to wear the shoes. He slipped the page into the interior pocket of the suit jacket instead, where he found a business card had been placed. At first John assumed it would be the card of whoever sold the suit (it was a very nice suit), but upon inspection he saw it was one of Mycroft’s. The back had a quick note scrawled on it.

_Not bloody likely_ , John thought when he read it, but he put it back in the pocket with the letter just the same.

John was just slipping on the shoes when there was a tap at the closed dressing room door, followed by Sherlock poking his head in. “Ready?”

“Nearly,” said John. “I hate suits. They’re only good for church and funerals.”

“You look very natty,” Sherlock told him, “aside from the fact that you also look sick to your stomach. Feeling all right?”

John was having a difficult time looking directly at Sherlock, and the fact that his flatmate appeared honestly concerned only made things worse. “Fine. Just hungry.” He was a terrible liar and he knew it, and he fully expected Sherlock to call him out on the matter, but the detective let it be.

On the way downstairs, Sherlock provided a list of instructions. “You’ll sit to her left, but don’t sit until she does. Mum’s a stickler for this sort of thing, in that way only people who weren’t born to it can be. Don’t let the amount of tableware alarm you, just watch me—”

“I know what a salad fork is, Sherlock,” John snapped.

Sherlock paused. “I was only trying to help.”

“Your concern for my lack of etiquette is touching.”

Sherlock stopped short of the dining room doors. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

John focused on the ornate carvings that decorated the doorframe. “I’m fine,” he insisted.

“Does wearing a suit always put in you in such a bad mood?” Sherlock persisted.

John clenched his teeth. “Yes.”

Sherlock studied his companion, but all he said was, “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting, dear?” asked Gerrie as she came down the hall, her heeled shoes seeming to propel her forward lest she fall forward instead. She took John’s arm, which visibly startled him, but Gerrie only smiled and patted him. “Shall we? You must be famished!”

John knew he should be—he had been, just a while ago—but his appetite had fled. Or so he’d thought, until they went into the dining room and were greeted by the savory aroma of Sunday dinner. At which point John realized he was hungry after all.

“We’d normally do this for the afternoon meal,” Gerrie said as she took her seat at the head of the table, “but it’s hardly worth the effort with just Sherlock home. But now here you are! So I had Chloe pull a little something together for tonight.”

“You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble on my account,” said John.

“Nonsense, I like having a reason.” Chloe entered from a connecting door, carrying three plates laden with food, and John suppressed the impulse to get up and help her. The dish that was set in front of him did indeed look delicious: roast with gravy, potatoes, carrots, and miniature Yorkshire puddings.

As Chloe exited, an older gentleman entered with a bottle of wine.

“That reminds me, John,” said Gerrie as the wine was poured, “I need your car keys so Jeremy can bring your car around out of the drive.”

John was having trouble thinking clearly; he could feel Sherlock watching him from across the table. “Oh, um . . . They’re upstairs . . .”

“Don’t worry about it now,” Gerrie said. “Just bring them by my room later.”

John nodded absently, and Gerrie finally began to eat, giving John and Sherlock the freedom to eat as well. Sherlock surprised John by attacking his meal with barely restrained gusto, though upon reflection, John counted three days since he’d last seen his flatmate eat anything. Which wasn’t unusual; Sherlock’s appetite was like a tide, out for long stretches before washing ashore again.

If there was any conversation of note, John missed it. He concentrated on his meal (which was very good) and listened to the steady stream of Gerrie’s chatter, making vague remarks at what he hoped were the appropriate moments. At some point he found a dessert plate of bread and butter pudding in front of him, though he couldn’t remember how it got there.

And then the meal was over, and John found himself feeling a bit like a man who’d just sat through a movie and couldn’t recall a single thing that had happened in it. He was sure he hadn’t exchanged more than two words with Sherlock, if that many, and he wondered if Sherlock was upset about it. Suspicious, more like. John risked a glance, but Sherlock was staring at the sideboard, lost in his own thoughts.

“Let’s go up to the music room,” Gerrie suggested as she rose, the men following suit. “Sherlock can play the piano for us.”

“Mycroft plays piano, Mother; I play the violin.”

“Oh.” Gerrie took a moment to contemplate this. “I can’t imagine why you would choose such an unpleasant instrument, Sherlock. Sounds like a cat being strung up. John must be a saint to put up with it.”

John inhaled deeply. It had been a long day, and a strange one. A day that had started with his having a bad dream, and finding Mycroft Holmes waiting for him, and then there had been the long drive and the bizarre tea and the walk and the letter, and all at once John was somewhere between exhausted and highly irritated.

“Leave him alone, would you?”

Both Gerrie and Sherlock turned their full attention on John. “What’s that, dear?” Gerrie asked, and John knew she was giving him a way to retract his rudeness, but the spark of annoyance in him was only getting hotter.

“You’re so busy seeing everything he isn’t, you don’t see him for what he is,” John said. “He’s amazing, in case you hadn’t noticed. And no, he doesn’t work for the Home Office, and he doesn’t play the piano, and his personal skills are, well, practically nil, but if you’d quit trying to make him into someone he isn’t, you might be pleasantly surprised.”

John waited for her to order him out of the house, which would have been fine by him because suddenly he was too tired to care any more; he just wanted to go home and be done with this insanity. But Gerrie appeared to be speechless. She just kept blinking at him, unable to salvage the situation with any kind of polite gloss.

“Well, this has been . . .” Sherlock said abruptly, coming round the table to steer John out of the room. “It’s late, so we’ll just be getting to bed. Good night, Mum.”

“Good night, boys,” Gerrie answered faintly, and John’s last glimpse was of her standing there, her forehead slightly puckered as if she didn’t understand what had just happened.

Sherlock half dragged John back upstairs, not speaking until they’d reached his room. John found himself standing there, desperate to look at anything but his flatmate, and thinking that even the electric lights couldn’t make all the blue-grey any less dreary.

Sherlock began turning circles in his agitation. “That was . . . spectacularly stupid.”

“Yes, well,” said John, “I suppose _I’m_ spectacularly stupid.”

“Not usually.” Sherlock stopped in front of John and leaned in. “It wasn’t the wine; you didn’t have that much to drink,” he reflected.

“You would know. You spent the whole meal watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake.”

“I wasn’t waiting for you to make a mistake, John. I was only wondering what was bothering you.”

John finally met Sherlock’s gaze. “But you never wonder for my sake, do you? It’s only because you need something to occupy yourself with. You don’t care; you’re just curious.”

“Does it make a difference?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course it makes a difference!” Then John took in a shaky breath and asked what he really wanted to know: “Who’s Charles?”

Clearly nonplussed at the change in direction, Sherlock replied, “Charles who?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.” John reached into the interior pocket of his suit and removed the letter.

Sherlock frowned at it for a long moment, as if John might be playing some kind of trick. “What’s this?”

John shoved the folded page at him. “Take it! I don’t know why Mycroft wanted me to have it, and I don’t care. I’m going back to London. I’ll see you back at the flat.” He was almost to the connecting door when Sherlock said quietly, “Whitcombe.”

“What?”

“Charles Whitcombe,” said Sherlock, staring at the now unfolded document. “I’ve never seen this. Mycroft must have . . . must have intercepted . . .”

“Well, who was he?” John asked. “Why bring him up now? Why give the letter to me instead of you?”

But Sherlock was having difficulty collecting his thoughts. “I don’t know, John, I—”

“You must at least know who he is!” said John. “A letter like that . . . This man is in jail by the sound of things, and you and your brother had something to do with it.”

Sherlock shook his head slightly. “He’s not . . . any more . . . At least, I don’t . . .” Sherlock went to sit in a daintily carved chair that was set in a corner of the room and declared, “I need to think.”

John watched with fascination the visible change in his companion. It was like watching a man who had been shot with an arrow pull the point from his own chest. _How like Sherlock to ignore the wound and examine the weapon instead_ , he thought.

“He was my chemistry instructor,” said Sherlock, his voice now even, his tone detached. He was merely citing facts now, John knew.

“What, at uni?” John asked.

But Sherlock shook his head. “I was fifteen.”

“Fifteen!” John exclaimed. “What kind of person sends a letter like that to a fifteen year old?”

“Mycroft was in his first or second year at Whitehall. He . . . took care of the situation.”

“Rightly so.”

“We never even told Mum.” Sherlock continued to frown thoughtfully at the letter. “Charles would have been out long since, though.”

“You never heard from him?”

Sherlock shook his head again.

“And are you—” John swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. “Are you sorry you never heard from him?”

“No,” said Sherlock flatly, refolding the paper.

_Just like that_ , John thought. _Never mind any personal pain, he just . . ._ And all at once he saw exactly why Mycroft left him the letter. “What happened?” he asked.

“I just told you.”

“No, what happened, exactly?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked.

“How did it end?”

“Mycroft came to Charles’s flat. He had . . . police . . . Why are you asking me this?”

_I’m hurting him_ , thought John. But as a doctor he knew pain was sometimes a key part of the healing process. “Mycroft brought you home that night, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s sent you home again now, after Moriarty . . .” John went on.

Sherlock turned and looked out the window at the darkness outside. “That’s taking the long way around, isn’t it?” he murmured.

“With you, Sherlock, there’s no such thing as a shortcut.” He took a breath and asked his final question. “Did he hug you?”

Sherlock whipped his head around and stared hard at the doctor. “What?”

“Did Mycroft hug you that night?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock turned back to the window. “I don’t remember.”

“You _do_ remember; you remember everything.” He pulled the card from his suit pocket, walked over and handed it to Sherlock.

“Mycroft’s calling card?”

“Turn it over.”

Sherlock flipped the card in his hand and read his brother’s scrawled words:

_Hug him for me.  
—MH_

“He does care, Sherlock,” John said gently.

Sherlock began to tremble, which left John at a loss. He didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone, but he wasn’t sure Sherlock wanted him there, either. “I, uh . . . won’t, if you don’t want me to.”

And to John’s surprise, Sherlock laughed. “Thank you, John. Let’s hold it in reserve, shall we? We may yet find a use for it.” He handed the card back to John and stood. “Go lay down on the bed for a minute, would you?”

“What?”

“Pull back the spread first, though. And take off your shoes.”

“I’m not sleeping in here,” John told him firmly.

“Of course you’re not, but it needs to look like you did,” said Sherlock. “That side. I always sleep by the windows.”

“They’ll see my bed was slept in,” John argued, even as he moved to do as instructed.

“I’ll make it in the morning.” Sherlock was shrugging off his suit coat now and kicking off his own shoes. “Will you, uh, still be going back to London?”

“I don’t know; I may feel different in the morning.”

Sherlock pulled the bedspread the rest of the way down and flopped onto the mattress next to John. “Be sure to use my shower in the morning,” he reminded, just as his door flew open.

“Sherlock, John’s not ans—Oh, there you are,” Gerrie said. “John, darling, your car keys?”

John sat up. “Right. Let me just . . .” He departed through the dressing room door as Gerrie leveled her gaze on her son.

“We’re dining at Corring tomorrow evening,” she said. “Can the two of you behave yourselves in company?”

Sherlock offered his most innocent expression. “Of course.”

“I certainly hope so. Thank you, John,” she added sweetly as he returned and handed her the keys. “Just keep in down, boys, if you don’t mind. I’m a light sleeper.” And she pulled the door closed behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

“JOHN.”

John kept his eyes shut, pretending not to hear.

“John, you have to get up so I can make your bed before Chloe comes up.”

“I’m still sleeping.”

“No you’re not.”

John gave in and opened his eyes. “I’d like to still be sleeping.”

“Then go sleep in my bed.” And to forestall any further argument, Sherlock pulled off the counterpane. “My God, what are you wearing?”

John sat up. “Don’t ask.” He wasn’t about to admit he’d found the silk pajamas rather comfortable. “Do you even know how to make a bed?”

“I went to school.” Which John took to mean Sherlock had gone _away_ to school, presumably somewhere he’d been expected to make his bed. _Well, his bed at Baker Street was tidy, too, hadn’t it?_ John recalled. So leaving it at that, John reluctantly got up to start his day.

Things at Weald House promised to be mundane, even boring, which was fine with John after all the drama of late—the most recent adventure in London and the bizarre revelations of the day before. And while part of him kept telling him to go home, another part insisted he couldn’t possibly leave Sherlock to face things alone. Not for an entire week. So John began to look at the whole thing as a sort of holiday. Or maybe it was more like dinner theatre? Like he was some poor bloke pulled up from the audience to play the straight man in a parlour enactment.

No matter. He would enjoy the good cooking at least.

But at breakfast, Sherlock was already showing signs of irritation brought on by boredom. They ate in the kitchen, and every few minutes Sherlock would look out the window and sigh.

“What’s the matter?” John finally asked, not because he wanted to know—he already knew—but because Sherlock so obviously wanted him to ask.

“It’s so . . . peaceful.”

“Yes, it’s quite lovely,” John agreed, just to needle him a bit.

“I hate it.”

The venom in Sherlock’s tone surprised John; even when he had no cases in London and was bemoaning the lack of crime, Sherlock had never sounded so bitter.

“Bad memories?” asked John.

But Sherlock only stood and said, “I’m going for a ride. Want to come?”

“God, no,” John said a bit too quickly, earning him a glint of interest from his companion. “Horses and I don’t get on,” he admitted.

“Bad memories?” Sherlock asked, giving John a little pang; was this Sherlock’s way of suggesting he’d crossed a line? But Sherlock was already turning to go. “What are you going to do then?”

“I don’t know. Find something to read in the library, maybe?”

Sherlock nodded curtly as if this met his approval. “I expect I’ll be back by midday, but don’t hold off eating by waiting for me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” John murmured, knowing full well there was a better than average chance Sherlock wouldn’t eat at all considering he’d had a full dinner the night before and a nibble of toast and eggs that morning to boot. Sherlock might now go the better part of a week before deciding he was hungry again.

Chloe entered the kitchen as Sherlock was going upstairs for his boots; she hastily moved out of his way, then turned her large, dark eyes on John, where they settled with open interest. After a minute or so of her staring, John could feel his cheeks growing warm. “I’ll just get out of your way,” he said.

“Never mind her,” said Sherlock as he passed back through the kitchen. “She won’t tell; will you, Chloe?” He threw her a wink and was gone, while she stared with barely concealed hatred after him.

“You’re his doctor, are you?” she asked.

“Something like that,” said John.

“Seems like he requires close attention,” she remarked.

“He’s . . . high maintenance.”

Chloe sniffed in contempt, and John fled to the library, which is where he was when Sir Henry Baskerville arrived.

“Where is he?” Henry boomed as he flung the front door open without having bothered to ring the bell.

Gerrie came out to the top of the staircase. “Henry! What’s going on?”

“Where’s Sherlock?”

In the library, John sighed and closed the book he’d been reading on Scottish military history. _He’s found out about the dog._

“I don’t know,” Gerrie was telling Henry.

John exited the library and walked slowly toward the entry. “Sherlock went for a ride,” he offered, working to keep his voice neutral.

“You!” Henry exclaimed. “You’re just as bad!”

Taken aback, John asked, “What did I do?”

“Broken my sister’s heart is what!”

“I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,” Gerrie put in smoothly. She flashed John a warning look.

“We’ll see about that,” said Henry, turning to leave, and through the entry window John spotted a pack of hounds waiting in the drive along with the horse he supposed Henry must have ridden over from Corring Hall.

“He expected to be back by midday,” said John.

“I won’t bother waiting; the dogs will find him first.” And with that, Henry slammed out of the house.

Upstairs, Gerrie heaved a sigh and turned a rueful gaze on John. “Good news travels fast, but bad news travels faster, I fear.”

“Should I go after them?” John asked.

“No,” said Gerrie. “If you were to insert yourself into things, it would only make it worse. They’ve grown up together; they’ll sort it out. They always do.” She turned away as if to leave.

“Then should I go back to London?”

Gerrie looked back, her lips pursed. “I’m inclined to tell you to stay as far away from my son as you can. But that seems unlikely. And I don’t feel like dealing with the tantrum he’d throw if I sent you away now.” She considered. “He’d only go after you, and I’d just as soon have him here.”

“He wouldn’t, you know.”

Gerrie arched a brow.

“Go after me, I mean,” John told her.

“I know my son, John, so take my word for it: you could move halfway across the globe, and he’d go find you.”

John wasn’t sure if what she’d said was meant to be a promise or a threat, and he didn’t get the chance to ask. Gerrie was already stalking away when his cell phone rang. John’s first thought was that it was probably Sarah wanting to know where he was, but when he checked, the ID read Lestrade.

“Where the devil are you?” was the inspector’s greeting.

“Out of town. Why?”

“When will you be back?”

John pictured Lestrade pacing his office. “I think Sherlock’s planning to stay the week. _Why?_ ”

Lestrade uttered an oath. “Is he on a case? No, never mind. Have him call the minute he’s back.”

“I will.” John ended the call and stared at his phone a moment. Maybe Sherlock would be bored enough to want to return to London early, regardless of any promises he made to his brother. In the meantime, John felt he should at least call Sarah before she started checking hospitals for him and his flatmate.

She answered the phone with “John! I was just going to call you! I wondered how the two of you made out the other night. Not, you know, made out, but . . .” She sighed. “I’ve put my foot in it again, haven’t I?”

 _If you only knew what we’re doing now_ , John thought. _I’ve met his mum and am pretending to be his boyfriend. And why? Even I’m not sure._ But what John said was, “I know what you meant. Anyway, we’re fine. I just wanted to let you know we’re out of town, maybe for the week. I didn’t want you to worry if you couldn’t find us.”

“Oh.” There was a pause. “But you’re okay? And he’s . . .?”

“His usual self, which is as okay as he gets.”

“Out on a case then?”

“Not exactly. More like a recuperative holiday.”

The pause was longer this time. “Okay!” Sarah finally said, a tad too cheerfully. “Well, I’ll see you when you get back then.”

“Right. I’ll call you when we’re in,” John told her. As he hung up, he felt a wave of frustration. Sherlock’s unorthodox methods were starting to take a serious toll on John’s personal life, and John forged a new resolve to set things straight all around.

He was on his way back to the library when the doorbell rang, followed by furious hammering, though the blows weren’t loud so much as rapid. John hesitated, but there was no sign of either Chloe or the elusive Jeremy, so he went to answer the door himself, whereupon Elyse Baskerville all but fell into his arms.

“Dr. Watson!” she panted. “Just the man I was looking for! Please come; my brother, he’s been shot!”

John needed no additional prompting, but he froze when he saw the horse standing in the drive. “Can’t we walk?”

“It would take too long! You don’t ride?” When John only shook his head, Elyse said, “Climb up behind me; I’ll manage Morningstar.”

“I have a car . . .”

Elyse tossed her head with impatience. “I’m sure you can’t drive your car through a wooded chase.” She swung herself onto the blue roan and waited for John to follow.

John reluctantly approached the horse, shying when Morningstar turned his head toward the newcomer. Elyse frowned. “There’s no reason to be frightened, Doctor. Morningstar is quite docile.”

“I’m not frightened,” John protested, though even he could hear how unconvincing he sounded.

“Please,” Elyse pleaded, “we’re wasting time!”

Summoning his courage, John got on the horse but then wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

“Hold on to me,” Elyse told him. “We’re going to gallop.”

John closed his eyes and held as tightly as he felt decorum would allow. He didn’t open them again until he felt the horse pull to a stop.

John couldn’t guess how far they’d gone, though it hadn’t taken long to get there; five minutes, maybe seven or eight at the outside. Feeling bruised and jostled, he climbed down from the horse then waited to hand Elyse down. She shook him off with no little intolerance and an expression that might have been disgust, which surprised John until he remembered Henry Baskerville’s accusation that John was a prime contributor to Elyse’s unhappiness.

“He’s over here,” she said, striding past. They were in a clearing, most of the grass dead, though pale green shoots were beginning to show. But not more than five meters away was a stand of trees. “That’s Corring Chase,” Elyse informed John. “I’m guessing that’s where Henry was headed, but he never made it.”

John didn’t need Elyse to lead him to where Henry lay; the foxhounds acted as signpost enough. Some sat, some lay with their heads on their paws, and all were quiet.

“You found him like this?” John asked as he approached.

Elyse nodded. “I couldn’t move him, and I didn’t want to leave him, but what else could I do? And then I remembered Sherlock introduced you as a doctor yesterday . . . And I thought since the dogs were here, and if I could be quick . . .”

As John got closer, the dogs stood. He hesitated and glanced at Elyse. “They’re friendly enough,” she said, though her voice lacked some conviction. “Henry’s their pack leader, you see. They don’t know what to do without him. But I don’t think they’ll hurt you.”

John took another step, and all at once the dogs moved forward. John tensed, but the dogs merely began to sniff, some of them putting their paws up on his legs, stretching to get at his hands, which they smelled and licked.

“Oh! Uh . . . If I could just . . .” _And now I’m trying to reason with a pack of dogs._ But when he got within arm’s reach of Henry, one of the dogs began to growl. Then another. And soon he was faced with a dozen foxhounds standing at full attention and ready to set themselves on him.

“They won’t,” said Elyse, though John noticed she hung back. “Not without a command, I don’t think.”

John did not find this encouraging.

He looked at where Henry lay on his side, his back toward John, cap hanging partly off the straw-colored hair. From this angle, it was impossible to even see the wound, but John already had the sinking feeling it would do no good in any case; Henry wasn’t moving.

John glanced back again at Elyse’s white face, her wide eyes, and felt he had to do something. “Sit!” he said, and a few of the dogs actually did, while a couple others cocked their heads as if considering. But at least none of them were growling now. John stepped right, and the dogs watched but didn’t move. And so John walked in a sort of large circle, coming around Henry so that he could see the dark blossom of blood staining the man’s shirt and jacket. He’d been hit square in the chest, had probably already been dead when Elyse had come across him.

Elyse clearly read something in John’s face because she let out a wail. “Oh no! No, no, he can’t be!”

The dogs were up again then, barking a response to Elyse’s outburst.

“I’m sorry,” said John as he bent down for a closer look. “It was probably instantaneous. We should—” He broke off. He’d been about to suggest they go find Sherlock, but another thought sprang to mind. What if Henry had found Sherlock after all?

 _Sherlock wouldn’t have_ shot _him_ , John reasoned. Then countered himself with, _But he shot the dog._

_But a dog is one thing. A person is something else entirely. Right?_

And yet in a terrible way, John wasn’t convinced Sherlock would be so discriminant.

Elyse was on her knees in the dead grass and mud, sobbing. The dogs had gone back to sitting watchfully.

John was preparing to stand when something else caught his eye. It was partly concealed by Henry’s body—the way he’d fallen, and the way his coat hung open—but a telltale gleam caught in the sunlight gave John pause. Not wanting to disturb too much of the scene, John lifted the edge of the coat and nudged the body slightly, taking care not to push it full over.

Yes, it was a gun.

In fact, it was John’s gun.

John sat back on his heels as his mind did some rapid backtracking. He’d brought his gun, of course, in the event he might need it. But it had remained in his jacket, and his jacket was currently . . . where? Had he hung it up in the closet? Tossed it over a chair? In any case, it was almost certainly either in his room or Sherlock’s.

So Sherlock would have had easy access to it.

But then why leave it here?

Elyse’s sobs had been reduced to sniffles as she wiped at her eyes with the long sleeve of her shirt. She blinked tearfully in John’s direction. “How will we get him home?”

“We’ll need help; I can’t lift him, and I wouldn’t ask you to.” He paused. “Did Henry have a gun?”

“Of course. Several.”

Wondering if it might be a case of marvelous coincidence, John asked, “Is this one?”

Elyse rose shakily to her feet but didn’t step forward. “I—I can’t.”

John felt a flare of irritation that he quickly squelched under the reminder that this poor woman was having possibly the worst day of her life. Against his better judgment, John picked up the gun and held it up.

Elyse shook her head slowly. “It’s not Henry’s. At least, it’s not any gun of his I’ve ever seen.”

But John had already come to the same conclusion. The weight and feel of the piece was too familiar for him to believe there could be another so identical to the one he was used to.

He was on the verge of telling Elyse to go back to the house—either house—and get help when someone walking a horse appeared at the edge of the trees. At first John felt a flood of relief, thinking that it must be Sherlock out on his ride, but he quickly realized that wasn’t the case. This man had graying hair, and though tall he walked slowly.

“Jeremy!” Elyse yelped when she saw him, and the dogs stood, a couple of them letting out yelps of their own.

“Found Brandywine down at our stable,” Jeremy called back as he neared. “Still saddled. Worried that Sir Henry might’ve been thrown.”

“Worse than that, I’m afraid,” John told him.

Jeremy stopped a meter away from where John stood over Henry’s body. The old man’s eyes went from John to the gun in his hand to Henry’s still form. Then he looked to Elyse. “You all right, Miss?”

Elyse wrung her hands and shook her head. John had never actually seen anyone do that before, hadn’t thought people really did that, but there it was. “Oh, Jeremy! Somebody shot Henry!”

Jeremy raised his eyebrows and looked again at John.

“I didn’t!” John protested. “Miss Baskerville asked me for help, and I found the gun with the body.”

And now Jeremy’s eyes went back to the dead man. “I’ll get the wagon,” he grunted. He handed Brandywine’s rein to John, then moved off as Elyse broke into a fresh round of weeping. John was beginning to see that there was no way Sherlock would ever have been able to tolerate Miss Baskerville in any long-term arrangement.

Brandywine turned his head and snorted, causing John to jump. “Miss Baskerville,” he said, “there’s no reason for you to stay here. Why don’t you ride back to Weald House? I’ll wait and help Jeremy.”

Elyse sniffled. “All right,” she said.

“You’re okay to ride?” asked John.

She nodded.

“And the dogs?” he went on, eyeing the pack.

“They’ll want to stay with—with Henry, I’m sure.”

John sensed the tears were threatening to spill again, so he left it at that, gently sending Elyse on her way. Not long after, Jeremy reappeared driving a cart that was pulled by a dappled grey pony.

 _I’ve landed in a Jane Austen novel_ , John thought. _If only Jeremy were wearing a bonnet._ He recognized in a sort of detached way that he was bordering on hysteria; the disconnection was the only thing keeping him from having a breakdown.

Brandywine pawed restively and snuffled John’s hair as Jeremy worked his painstaking way down from the cart. Considering how slow Jeremy moved, and yet how quickly he seemed to have gone for the wagon and returned, John guessed they couldn’t be far from the Weald House stables.

“Brought a horse blanket,” Jeremy said. “It will have to serve for now.” He glanced sideways at John, and John realized he was still holding the gun—practically clutching it. John hastily moved to set it on the seat of the cart, freeing his hands to help.

As they laid the blanket out next to Henry’s body, the dogs came over to investigate. A few barked as they lifted Henry onto the blanket and wrapped him before transferring him to the cart.

“I’ll take him over to Corring Hall,” Jeremy said, climbing back onto the seat. “You can ride Brandywine back to Weald House; I expect Miss Baskerville and Mrs. Holmes would be glad of your support.”

“Was Sherlock back?” John asked.

Jeremy’s shoulders rose and fell in what was either a very slow shrug or a show of resignation. “You may want to take that.”

John grabbed his gun from the cart.

“The house is that way,” Jeremy told him, pointing. “Won’t take long on horseback.”

“What if I walk?”

Jeremy seemed to stare right through him. “Can’t leave Brandywine here, sir.”

“Right. Of course not.” John looked over at where the bay had begun to crop what little grass was available. Was this one taller than Morningstar had been? Seemed so. “Maybe I’ll walk him, too.”

“Suit yourself.” Jeremy started the cart rolling, then gave a whistle, and the pack of foxhounds went running after, yelping and baying in the wagon’s wake.

Brandywine, meanwhile, proved stubborn; having come to the conclusion that John neither had a liking for nor any particular experience with horses, the bay showed reluctance at being led and stopped any time he came across some freshly sprouting grass. John had half a mind to leave the stupid beast to its own devices, but felt responsible for the damn creature.

Rather how he felt about Sherlock, come to think of it.

The horse made the walk back to Weald House take longer than it should have, but even so, John was in sight of the stables inside of fifteen minutes. It and the “paddock” John supposed it was called (was that the word?) stood in a clearing on the east side of the house, though the trees beyond masked one from the other.

“Almost there,” said John, giving Brandywine’s rein a tug. The horse snorted his disapproval but moved forward nonetheless. Being close to his goal, John became more insistent and Brandywine eventually gave up stopping every few feet.

They came around the stables just as Sherlock was coming out. The detective stopped short when he saw them. “I thought you didn’t ride.”

“Does it look like I’m riding?”

“You’re in a mood,” Sherlock observed mildly. His eyes traveled to the horse. “Not one of ours. Henry’s?”

“Please tell me you didn’t shoot him,” said John.

“I didn’t shoot him. About whom are we speaking?”

“Henry!”

“Someone shot Henry?” Sherlock asked.

“It wasn’t you?” John felt the need to confirm.

“No, but I wish it had been.”

“He’s dead, Sherlock.”

This announcement quickened Sherlock’s interest. “Where? When?”

“I need to do something with this first,” said John, giving Brandywine’s rein a shake.

“What? Oh.” Sherlock obligingly took the rein and led Brandywine into the stable where he snapped cross ties onto the halter and began untacking. “Tell me what you know,” he told John as he worked.

John hovered in the doorway. “Henry came to the house, upset. Said he was going out after you. Then his sister turned up and said he’d been shot. So we rode—”

“Ah, so you _did_ ride.”

John ignored him. “Out to where she’d found the body.”

“ _She_ found it?”

“That’s what she said. She remembered I was a doctor and hoped I could help but it was too late.”

Sherlock stopped in the middle of pulling the pad off Brandywine’s back. “The sooner I see the scene the better.”

“I can take you to where he was, I think . . .”

“Was? Never say you moved him!”

“I couldn’t just leave him there!” said John.

“Why not? What difference could it possibly make to him?” Sherlock finished removing the pad somewhat more roughly than was typical, and Brandywine stamped a foot in annoyance.

“None,” John conceded, “but it might to Elyse. Jeremy came around with that—” He jabbed a finger in Brandywine’s direction.

“It’s a horse, John. Not a _this_ , or a _that_. A horse.” He paused and frowned. “Jeremy had him?”

“He said he found the horse wandering around here, at the stable.”

Sherlock gave Brandywine’s neck a pat. “Sorry, old boy, I’ll have to brush you down later. In the meantime . . .” He unclipped the cross ties and led the bay to an empty stall. “Have a snack.”

Brandywine dutifully began nosing the feedbag.

“You’re nicer to that horse than you are to most people,” said John.

“Present company excluded?”

“No.”

Sherlock only smiled. “Show me where the body was, quickly, before the rain comes on.”

John looked up at the sky, which was perfectly blue aside from high, wispy clouds, none of which were dark enough to foretell showers.

“It’s coming,” Sherlock assured him. “I saw the way the birds attacked the feeder on the boathouse this morning; they always act up before a storm.”

John didn’t bother to argue, but as he turned to guide Sherlock back to the clearing where they’d found Henry, Sherlock said, “Your gun.”

John had forgotten he’d put it in the back of his waistband. Though it was concealed by his jumper, Sherlock’s sharp eyes had noticed it immediately.

“Found it with the body,” John told him. He started walking, quickly, almost as if he wished to shake his companion loose.

But of course Sherlock kept pace. “And you touched it.”

John heaved a sigh. “It’s not like I’ve never touched it before, Sherlock. My concern was that _you_ might have taken it.”

“Why would I? I carry my own when riding.”

“I don’t know. I’m not a consulting detective.” John came to a sudden stop. “You know, I’m not sure if you follow trouble or if trouble follows you.”

“You’re free to go back to London any time you like,” said Sherlock. “Just show me where you found the body before you leave.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m sorry, were you hoping for more?”

But John could only shake his head in amazement. “I came out here because I was worried about you . . .”

“And I came out here to get away from you. But I can’t seem to do that, can I?”

John fell back a step, his mind reeling as if he’d just taken a physical blow. “I don’t understand. I thought Mycroft sent you here.”

“He did. Because I asked him to.”

“But he made it sound like . . .”

“Mycroft and his goddamned meddling,” muttered Sherlock.

“You could have just said,” John told him. “Left me a note or something.”

“And if I’d left a note telling you I was going off for a week, would you have left it alone?”

“Of course. I’ve got better things to do than run after you.” But that wasn’t exactly true, was it? And the memory of Sherlock staring at a blank wall, the idea of not knowing where he was or whether he was really, truly all right . . . Would John have left it alone? Maybe for a day, he told himself. Even two. But he knew that, somewhere between boredom and worry, he’d have been moved to try finding Sherlock eventually. Mycroft had only sped up the inevitable.

 _What a sad, shabby place in life I’ve come to inhabit_ , John marveled, _trailing after this nutter._ Aloud he said, “I’ll just be going back then.”

“I need you to show me—”

“No. You really don’t. You’re brilliant, after all; you’ll find it on your own.” And, turning back the way they’d come, John started back to the house.

In the distance he could see a line of clouds, surely bringing the rain Sherlock had predicted was coming.


	4. Chapter 4

WITHOUT HAVING TO lead an uncooperative horse, John made it to the house in ten minutes easily. By then he had half talked himself into moving out of Baker Street altogether, wondering whether he could accomplish this before Sherlock was finished with whatever he was doing at Weald House.

He kicked off his muddy trainers just inside the kitchen door and headed up the hallway with the plan of packing his things before hunting down his car keys. But as he passed the library, he heard Gerrie call, “John?”

There was a split second during which John considered ignoring her, but he’d need to ask her about the keys anyway, so he stopped in the open doorway. Gerrie was standing; Elyse sat in an overstuffed chair designed to invite reading or dozing, though she did neither, opting to stare out a window instead.

Whatever Gerrie had been planning to say clearly stalled at her lips, and there was a moment in which she visibly switched gears, asking, “What’s wrong, dear?”

John shook his head as if to clear it. “Nothing. I, uh, just need my car keys back.”

“Did you and Sherlock have a row?”

“It’s fine. He’s out looking at the—” He glanced uneasily at Elyse. “The scene. But I need to get back to London, so . . .”

“I told you!” Elyse announced vehemently. “Look at him! He did it; I’m convinced of it!”

“Now, Elyse,” Gerrie said. Looking at John she added, “Though you must admit, it does appear a tad incriminating, leaving so suddenly.”

John had been so distracted with other things, it took a minute for what was being suggested to sink in. “You think _I_ shot Henry?” He waited for them to deny it, and when they didn’t, he asked, “Why would I? _How_ would I, when I was here?”

“Prove it!” demanded Elyse.

John looked at Gerrie. “You saw me. _You_ saw me, for that matter,” he said to Elyse. “I answered the bloody door.”

“You could have gone and come back,” Elyse insisted.

“You’re irrational,” John told her, realizing as he said it that he sounded an awful lot like Sherlock.

“Let’s not get into it like this,” said Gerrie. She took John’s arm and led him out of the room, telling Elyse over her shoulder, “Stay here, sweetheart; I just need to have a chat with John.”

John resisted the urge to snatch his arm from her grasp. “And I just need my keys.”

Gerrie walked them well away from the library door and said, “I know you’re lying.”

“I didn’t kill Henry!”

But Gerrie shook her head. “Never mind that; I’ve already called Mycroft and he’ll be out tomorrow if not tonight. But I read your blog, remember? I know about Sarah. So I don’t know if you’re lying to me or to—” She waved a hand. “Whoever reads your blog, but you’re lying to someone.” The blue eyes became steely. “Just see you don’t hurt him, John, or you’ll have me to deal with.”

“I think you may be overinflating my influence,” John told her. “He’s made it pretty clear he doesn’t want me here.”

“Of course he wants you here,” Gerrie said. “He wants to prove to himself he doesn’t _need_ you here. That’s a different thing entirely. Once he’s tested his theory to his satisfaction, he’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“You seem to understand him pretty well,” said John.

“He favors me in looks, but he’s just like his father in every other respect.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s got a bit of the actor in him, too.”

Gerrie smiled. “Yes, well, and maybe some of my mulishness besides. I’ve left something on your bed. As for the keys, we’ll have to wait until Jeremy gets back; I’ve no idea where he’s put them.”

John watched her return to the library. Then he went for the stairs. They proved slick—dangerous, even—in just his socks, but he made it up without incident.

He came to the green room and immediately noticed his jacket had been tossed onto a chair. Remembering his gun, he pulled it out of his waistband for a look. Had a round been fired? He opened the chamber and saw that, no, it was full.

Some relief there. But then what had it been doing with Henry’s body and how had it gotten there?

John tried to shrug it off. Let Sherlock figure it out. Or Mycroft, when he arrived. There were sure to be some fireworks then, but John expected to be gone well before that.

He was about to put the gun back in his jacket when it occurred to him maybe he should leave it as evidence? But he didn’t want to risk it being taken again or tampered with . . .

The sound of thunder rolling over the house startled him. He turned toward the closet, thinking he would grab his bag. But as he did so, light reflected off something on the bed and caught his eye.

It was, upon inspection, an old photo in a simple frame. The film used was black and white, or maybe the picture had simply been printed that way; John couldn’t be sure. In it, a Sherlock of about age seven or eight sat on warped wooden steps surrounded by sand and scrub grass. A beach holiday snap maybe? He was looking at the camera—it was that look a person gets when someone has just called his name—but his expression made it clear he was thinking about something else entirely.

John suddenly realized he hadn’t seen any photos displayed in the house. Sherlock didn’t exhibit any at the flat, either, so John hadn’t noticed the lack at Weald House as it was all much the same. But how different from the crowded walls he’d grown up with. At his parents’ house you couldn’t turn around without coming face to face with some old snapshot.

The sound of movement in the next room pulled John out of his musings. He dropped the framed photo back onto the bed; it was lovely, but John felt he had no right to it. Trying to stay quiet, he went to the closet for his bag.

“John?” Sherlock asked from the other room. “Your gun, if you please.”

Ignoring him, John grabbed his overnighter (the garment bag he decided he had no use for) and went back to the green room to gather the remainder of his things.

A minute later, Sherlock stuck his head in. “John? Didn’t you hear me?”

“It hadn’t been fired, if that’s what you’re wondering.” John tossed the object in question into the bag, followed by the discarded silk pajamas; those he would keep. Then he reached for his jacket.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked.

“Leaving.”

“You’ll need shoes.”

“I’m aware of that. Also need my keys . . .”

“Jeremy keeps them in a cupboard in the pantry.”

“Thanks.” After an awkward pause, John added, “Well, I’ll just—” He snatched up his bag and made for the door.

But Sherlock’s eyes had moved to the bed. “What’s that?”

John was half out the door. “Your mum left it. Guess she thought I might want it.”

“You don’t.” It was a flat and toneless statement. Sherlock picked up the framed image and frowned at it. “Only eight and already a mess,” he sighed before dropping the picture back onto the bed and returning his attention to John. “I have questions about the scene.”

John waited.

“You’ve said your gun hadn’t been fired. It was, however, pointed toward his chest?”

John thought about it. “He was partway on top of it, but yes, the muzzle was facing him.”

“And the dogs. How did they react?”

“They sat there, mostly. There was a moment when I thought they might attack, but . . .” John shook his head.

“They were watching you?”

“Me and Elyse, yeah.”

“I’m surprised she could stomach seeing it,” said Sherlock.

“She didn’t really look,” John told him. “In fact, at one point she said she couldn’t. That’s when I had to pick up the gun to show her.”

“Why show her?” Sherlock asked him.

“I wanted to be sure Henry didn’t have one like mine.”

“And she stayed back,” Sherlock said thoughtfully.

“Shouldn’t you look for the murder weapon?” asked John.

Sherlock waved the idea aside. “Henry’s gun? It’s at the bottom of the pond by now.” He pressed his palms together and brought the married index fingers to his lips as he considered.

“Well,” John said in the tone of a person bidding farewell, “if you’re having trouble with it, I’m sure Mycroft can help you when he gets here.” He turned away again.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock echoed sharply.

“Your mother phoned him; he’s on his way,” John called back at him.

“Call him and tell him not to waste his time. I know who did it.”

John was halfway down the stairs now. “Do it yourself!”

Sherlock appeared on the landing. “You don’t want to know?”

“Nope!” John rounded the bottom of the staircase and headed for the kitchen.

Gerrie poked her head out the library door. “What’s all the shouting?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Holmes,” John said without stopping. “I’m just leaving.”

“I wish you’d at least wait until Mycroft gets here.”

“No need; Sherlock knows who did it.”

“Does he? Who was it?”

“No idea. Ask him.” John was already moving into the kitchen. A door on the right led to the old butler’s pantry; John stopped there first to search for his keys. He found them in a small cabinet that hung on the wall, filled with little hooks for keys and stacked at the bottom with batteries of various sizes.

Gerrie swept in just as John was stepping out of the pantry. “John, please, he has Elyse cornered in the library.”

“So?”

“You know him; he’s about as gentle as a briar. Can’t you just go . . . do something?”

“She accused me of murder!” John reminded her. “Anyway, why don’t you go slap it out of him? Isn’t that what you usually do?”

Gerrie thrust a reproachful finger under John’s nose. “You’re the one who put him in this mood, John. You need to be the one to talk him around. Elyse and I shouldn’t suffer for whatever quarrel the two of you have had.”

John tossed his bag down and pocketed his keys before striding off toward the library. _And still in my damned socks_ , he found himself thinking.

The door was ajar, and when John peeked in he saw Elyse still sat in the chair, though now she sat bolt upright, her hands clenched on the seat.

“I know you didn’t!” Sherlock was shouting at her. “But you helped, and I want to know why!”

Two bright red spots appeared on Elyse’s cheeks, and her mouth became a thin, mutinous line. “You don’t _know_ anything! And you can’t prove anything!”

“I know Chloe went over to Corring and had a fight with Henry this morning,” Sherlock told her. “Were you involved?”

Elyse only stared and John took the opportunity to push the door open a bit farther so he could step into the room.

“Thought you weren’t interested,” said Sherlock, his eyes never leaving Elyse.

“I’m not. But your mother has asked me to make sure you don’t hurt the houseguest.”

“I’m sure he’s never manhandled a woman in his life,” Elyse said.

“And you’re just itching to be the first, are you?” Sherlock asked her.

“This is going splendidly,” observed John.

“The _dogs_ , Elyse,” said Sherlock. “I may not like them, but I know their uses; they smelled something on you—guilt or fear. What could you have been afraid of, I wonder? Not John; a pretty girl has nothing to fear from him—”

“You would know all about that, I suppose,” she spat.

Sherlock ignored her. “And you’ve lived all your life with those dogs; you’ve never been afraid of them. But you were today. You wouldn’t cross them.”

John thought about how Elyse had stayed away from her brother’s body. And how the dogs had stayed between her and the body. They’d been watching _her_ , not him.

Elyse turned her baleful glare toward John, but Sherlock told her, “He didn’t tell me. I saw the prints in the mud.”

“I’ll tell you,” Elyse declared suddenly. “Everything. In private.”

“Glad that’s settled,” John muttered, ready to leave.

But Elyse said, “No. We’ll go out on the pond.”

Sherlock glanced at the windows. “But it’s raining!”

“Oh, are you made of spun sugar? Will you melt?” Elyse asked as she stood and marched out of the room.

As Sherlock followed, John stopped him briefly with a hand on the detective’s arm. “Sherlock,” he said, “Just . . .” But he wasn’t sure what he meant to say.

Sherlock shrugged the hand off and left.

John waited a few minutes, giving Elyse and Sherlock time to get outside before going for his bag and shoes. When he finally went into the kitchen, Gerrie was standing at the windows by the table. “What are they doing?” she asked.

“Elyse wanted to speak to him privately,” John told her.

“In the rain?”

“Well it’s a safe bet no one will bother them, isn’t it?” John finished slipping on his trainers. “Where might I find my car?”

“Hmm? Oh, the garages are out that way.” She pointed to the right, back toward the pantry.

“There’s more than one?”

Gerrie was only half listening. “There are three . . . You’ll need the keys. They’re taking one of the boats out?”

John spared a glance out the window and saw Elyse standing beside the boathouse while Sherlock shoved an old rowboat into the water. Both of them were already drenched from the steady rain, and though Elyse had the protection of her riding coat, Sherlock had shed his upstairs and so had only his shirt. John watched Elyse step into the boat, then turned away to go get his bag. He was wondering whether he’d be able to tell which keys opened the garages (had they been labeled? he hadn’t been paying attention, an oversight for which Sherlock would surely have scolded him), but as he lifted his travel case, he couldn’t resist asking, “Why the beach?”

Gerrie looked at him this time. “What?”

“Who takes an eight year old who can’t swim to the beach for a holiday?”

John watched Gerrie work out what he was talking about, all her lines of thought written plainly on her face. “You’re talking about the picture,” she finally concluded. “It was taken at Wells; that was an especially nice summer.”

John gave it up as a lost cause; she really didn’t get it, and probably never would. He suddenly wished he had packed the photo, almost as a way of rescuing the boy in it from a life of absent-minded neglect.

Gerrie had gone back to staring out the window. “What is she doing now, I wonder?”

John resolved not to care and started for the butler’s pantry. He’d take all the keys if need be and try every one of them until he found the one that would free his car.

“John . . .” said Gerrie.

“Yes?” he asked through his teeth, eager to be gone. Against his will, he found himself turning to see what might cause such dread in Gerrie’s voice.

Elyse was standing in the boat. She had one foot on the gunnel. Sherlock merely sat there, looking up at her, his hands clasped to the oars.

“Does she mean to jump?” Gerrie wondered aloud.

“How deep is the pond?” John asked her.

“Sixteen, maybe twenty feet at the deepest point. But Elyse swims beautifully,” she added.

John dropped his bag. “Maybe, but Sherlock doesn’t.”

“Oh, but Elyse knows that,” Gerrie told him.

John was at the outside door. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” He pulled the door open just in time to see Sherlock reach up as if to pull Elyse down, but too late; she pushed hard with the foot that was perched on the gunnel, and brought her other foot against it as well, effectively tipping her weight to one side and capsizing the boat.

John was a strong swimmer, though it was difficult to do in jeans and a jumper. His jacket and trainers he’d discarded somewhere between the house and the pond. He reached the overturned rowboat in under a minute, though to John it felt like ages. His biggest fear was that Sherlock might be under the vessel, so he was relieved to spot his flatmate floating facedown on the far side of it. John threw an arm under Sherlock’s chest and lifted him back, pulling his face from the water and revealing a gash on Sherlock’s right temple where the boat had hit him as it flipped.

John towed Sherlock to the margin of the pond and laid him on his back in the mud beside the water. “Come on,” he hissed through gritted teeth as he checked Sherlock’s pulse, which was rapid but steady, and watched for breathing. _Laryngospasm._ He tilted Sherlock’s head back to extend the esophagus and open the airway.

“Good boy,” John sighed when Sherlock sputtered and began to draw in air. He pulled Sherlock to sitting, then helped him to stand, keeping an arm around him to hold him steady. John could feel the shivers running through Sherlock’s body; it being early spring, the water probably hadn’t been unfrozen for more than a couple weeks and was still extremely cold. The rain didn’t help.

“Walk,” John instructed.

“Bitch upset the boat,” Sherlock said somewhat thickly. He sounded somewhere between surprised and aggrieved, but John chose to chalk it up to an onset of hypothermia.

Spotting his jacket, John steered them in that direction so he could grab it and throw it over Sherlock’s shoulders. His shoes, he supposed, would have to wait.

Gerrie waited in the kitchen. “But where’s Elyse?”

“To hell with Elyse,” growled John. “She either sank or she swam.” He ushered Sherlock through the house and, with more effort, up the stairs to Sherlock’s room where John sat him on the edge of the bed, tossed off the jacket, and began unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt.

“Need to get you dry,” said John, though he was mostly talking to himself.

“Am I dreaming?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

John was attempting to push the wet and clinging broadcloth from Sherlock’s shoulders. “I thought you don’t dream.”

Rallying, Sherlock pushed him away. “I’d just as soon you not undress me like a child.”

John was tempted, ever so briefly, to make a joke of it ( _Oh, and how would you like me to undress you?_ ) but decided this was neither the time nor place.

[If he had, Sherlock’s answer would likely have alarmed him. “With passion,” Sherlock might have said, or, “Feeling as if you can’t stand to have anything coming between us, not even a thin piece of goddamned cotton.” But Sherlock was already feverish at this point and any words he might have said couldn’t be taken seriously under the circumstances.]

Instead, John said, “Can you manage?”

“Bring me a towel.”

As he did so, John told him, “I’m going to go change. Get into some dry clothes and under the blankets, and I’ll be right back.”

John passed through the closet to the green guest room and stopped to pull his wet and muddy socks off his feet before going back down to the kitchen in search of his bag. He found Gerrie still staring out the window at the pond and was prepared to ignore her, but as he was grabbing his traveler, he thought to ask, “Do you have a first aid kit?”

Gerrie turned and blinked at him, her expression blank. “What?”

“A first aid kit,” John repeated.

“In the pantry, under the sink.” John was moving to fetch it when she asked, “Do you think she got out of the pond?”

“Wasn’t really my concern at the time,” said John.

“It would be such a shame to lose both Henry and Elyse on the same day.”

John wasn’t sure he agreed with that sentiment, but he didn’t answer. He went for the kit and escaped back to the upstairs with it and his bag. Back in the green room he changed into dry clothes before taking the kit with him to check on Sherlock.

His flatmate had done as instructed for once; he was wrapped in his blankets and already asleep. John took a seat on the edge of the bed and leaned in for a closer look at the wound. A cut, he decided, and nothing too serious; it had bled quite a bit, as head wounds were wont to do, but Sherlock had clearly used the towel to blot it, and the bleeding had stopped. Still, there was a chance of concussion. Someone would need to watch Sherlock for the next few days to be sure there were no lasting problems, and John had a feeling the job would likely fall to him.

In the meantime, the injury needed to be cleaned and bandaged. John opened the first aid kit and removed an antiseptic wipe and some tweezers. There was a middling chance he’d be able to do it without waking Sherlock; he knew from experience his flatmate slept deeply and was difficult to rouse. But John had never tested the theory of doing something _to_ Sherlock while the detective was sleeping. And this particular procedure was likely to sting.

John leaned over and Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “What are you doing?”

“You’re awake.”

“Obviously.”

“I was just going to bandage the cut on your head,” John explained.

“While I was sleeping?”

“You weren’t sleeping.”

“You didn’t know that,” Sherlock pointed out.

John sighed. “You know what? Fine. I will stop trying to help you.” He tossed the wipe and the tweezers back into the kit, snapped it shut and stood.

Sherlock sat up. “I didn’t say I didn’t want you to.”

“Then why do you make it so bloody difficult?” John asked.

“I don’t know.”

“At least you’re honest.”

They fell into silence, and Sherlock’s attention seemed to be focused on the rain blowing against the windows. John had begun to think he’d been forgotten when Sherlock asked, “Are you still planning to leave?”

“You’re lucky I hadn’t already,” said John.

Sherlock nodded slowly.

“Anyway, I need to go find my shoes. And my car. I’ll leave the kit here in case you get ambitious. Or bored.” John reached down and scooped up his jacket from where it had been discarded earlier. He was pulling the door open when Sherlock said, “Chloe did it.”

John hesitated, letting the door swing shut. “What?”

“Chloe shot Henry.”

“Am I supposed to care?”

“I thought you might be a _little_ interested,” said Sherlock.

“Not really, no.” He pulled the door open again, was halfway out of the room, but couldn’t do it. Shaking his head and cursing his own curiosity, John asked, “Okay, _why_ would Chloe shoot Henry?”

“You have to start from the beginning,” Sherlock told him. “Chloe was the only other person with access to your gun.”

John was now leaning against the door, arms folded. “Because she tidied the room,” he concluded.

“After discovering our ‘secret’ this morning, Chloe went directly to Corring Hall and told Henry. They quarreled—”

“Why would they fight about that?”

Sherlock sighed. “I thought at first they were involved romantically. Henry would have used Elyse as an excuse not to make the relationship legitimate; he would never have displaced his sister as hostess of Corring in favor of a housemaid. Chances are he told Chloe that they could make their relationship official only after Elyse was married. Whether or not he really meant it is suspect, but . . .” Sherlock shrugged.

“So this morning Chloe realized there was no way you were going to marry Elyse,” said John. “Which set things back quite a bit, I’d imagine.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Actually, no. As it turns out, it moved things forward.”

“How do you mean?”

“Chloe wasn’t involved with Henry; she was involved with Elyse.”

“Elyse?!”

“I was wrong about the motive,” Sherlock admitted, “but I was correct in thinking Chloe shot him.”

“Elyse told you this?” John asked.

“I knew from the way the dogs acted, and the way Elyse reacted to them, that she had something to hide. But I couldn’t figure out why she’d want any part of her brother’s murder. He wasn’t terribly pleasant to live with, I’m sure, but the two of them had always been close.

“But this morning Chloe brought what she thought was a trump card,” Sherlock went on. “She confronted Henry with the news of her relationship with Elyse.”

“Because if you really weren’t going to marry Elyse—”

“Then Chloe felt they should get a fair shot at being together. After all, Elyse had no other ready suitors.”

“But Henry still said no,” John deduced.

“He was outraged,” said Sherlock, “on all fronts. He was determined that Elyse would marry me, and if not me—though he fully expected to bully me on that score—she would marry another eligible bachelor with a good family name.”

“So she shot him.”

“She took your gun and threatened him,” Sherlock said, “though Elyse insists Chloe never honestly planned to go through with shooting him. Henry saw through Chloe’s bluff. He dismounted and advanced on her, came to stand right in front of her, knowing she wouldn’t pull the trigger. Probably grabbed the barrel of your gun and held it to his chest, taunting her . . .” He was staring out the windows again, squinting a little as if he could see the events unfolding.

“But my gun hadn’t been fired,” said John.

“No. Chloe grabbed Henry’s gun from his belt and used it instead.”

“So she wasn’t bluffing after all.”

“Chloe has always been hot-headed,” Sherlock murmured.

“And this was all with Elyse’s blessing?” John asked.

“A lack of interference on her part, according to her. She says she came for you because she was having second thoughts.”

“I find that unlikely,” John told him.

Sherlock raised his brows. “Do you?”

“In saving Henry, Elyse would have been sacrificing Chloe.”

“Blood isn’t thicker than water?” Sherlock prodded.

John shook his head. “There are some bonds that are stronger. And anyway, with Henry dead she would inherit everything and could live however she liked.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Well, you’re off the hook then, aren’t you?” John added brightly.

“It would seem so,” Sherlock agreed, stifling a yawn.

“I’ll let you rest.”

Sherlock lay back down. “Tell Mycroft when he gets in . . .” If there were more to that thought, it didn’t make it past Sherlock’s lips.

***

JOHN’S FIRST TASK was to go out and find his shoes, which were sopping. Next he planned to search for his car, but when he came back into the kitchen, Mycroft was waiting for him at the table.

“Have some tea with me, would you, John?” Mycroft asked, but John knew it wasn’t a mere request. “Give your shoes a chance to dry.”

John dropped his trainers by the door and wiped his bare feet rather ineffectively on the mat before taking a seat at the table. “Sherlock solved it,” he told Mycroft. “Sorry if you’ve wasted a trip.”

“I’d have had to come home for the funeral in any case. Why don’t you fill me in?”

John took the hot cup of tea that had evidently been waiting for him and told Mycroft the whole story. By the end Sherlock’s brother was nodding gravely. “We’ll need to find Chloe. Elyse, too, if she’s not at the bottom of the pond.” He heaved a sigh and added, “And I have to get Mummy a new housekeeper.” By the sound of it, this final task was the one Mycroft considered most onerous.

“Shouldn’t you just call the local authorities?” John asked him.

Mycroft grimaced. “Don’t need this kind of thing in the papers. We’ll manage to spin it somehow.”

John nodded and pushed back from the table. “And I’ll just be on my way.”

“Where?”

“Back to the flat. Sherlock’s made it clear he’d rather I wasn’t here. But you probably knew that even before you sent me haring after him.”

Mycroft cocked a brow. “But it’s a good thing you were here.”

“He’s all yours now,” said John, retrieving his shoes. He went into the pantry and found a ring of keys labeled GARAGES, then went back upstairs to grab his bag and get fresh socks. He stuck his head into Sherlock’s room for one last check before pulling his things together and going to seek out his car.

Gerrie was on the landing. “How is he?”

“Suddenly it matters?” John asked her.

“Of course it matters,” Gerrie replied reasonably.

“Sorry, it just didn’t seem like you were very interested before.”

“I knew he was in good hands. I had no reason to worry.”

“Well you and Mycroft can split the difference now,” John said. “I’m sure between the two of you, he’ll be fine.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I am. I’m going back to my girlfriend, for one thing. And back to, I dunno, normal life, if there is such a thing.”

“All right . . . Are there any instructions for what we should do? With him?”

“What, like don’t feed him after midnight and don’t get him wet?” John asked. Gerrie only looked confused, and John sighed. “He may have a concussion, so if he has a headache that won’t go away, or if his vision gets blurry or he stops making sense—more so than usual—you should take him to a hospital for examination. Have them check his ribs while he’s there.” He pushed past Gerrie to the stairs and tried to exit with dignity, though he was acutely aware his shoes were squelching the entire way.

***

THE FLAT FELT weirdly quiet and empty. John tried calling Sarah but got no answer. He tidied up a bit, made himself something to eat, tried to find a program worth watching on the telly, and eventually fell asleep on the sofa only to be awakened by the sound of his mobile phone ringing.

“’lo?”

“Is there any chance you can get him back sooner?”

John sat up, his brain working through fog to place the voice. Lestrade. “Why don’t you call him and ask?”

“He never answers his phone.”

“Maybe I should stop answering mine,” John muttered. “Look, I’m not even with him. I’m at the flat and he’s . . . away.”

John could practically hear Lestrade reading between the lines. “You two have a fight or something?”

“Or something,” said John. “I’ll tell him to call you if and when I see him, but I have no idea when that will be. You’re better off trying yourself.”

Lestrade sighed. “Right, okay. Thanks.”

Feeling bleary and having lost his sense of time, John checked the clock and decided to shower and turn in for the night. While in the shower, his brain wandered and all at once he remembered the needles. John began to wonder whether he should just go take them, rather as a safety measure? Not that Sherlock couldn’t just go get more, but at the moment he wanted one, being forced to take the time to go and get one somewhere might provide enough of a buffer to make him rethink things.

So after his shower, John went back into Sherlock’s room and pulled the case from under the chest-of-drawers. His eyes strayed toward the letters, but John forced himself to ignore them. He gathered the needles and put everything else back.

He was standing in the middle of the flat, trying to decide whether to hide them or throw them away entirely when the door swung open.

Sherlock stopped on the threshold when he saw John, his eyes immediately falling on the needles in John’s hand. But as John mentally readied for an argument, Sherlock only looked away and said, “You’re up late.”

“And you’re home early.”

Sherlock closed the door behind him and slipped off his coat. “Being home with Mother and Mycroft is a bit too much like Christmas.”

“For most people, that would be a good thing,” John remarked. He surreptitiously eyed the cut on his flatmate’s forehead but said, “I’ll just get out of your way. Call Lestrade if you get a moment; sounds urgent, whatever he’s on about.” He headed for his room.

Sherlock didn’t answer, instead making straight for the pile of post John had left beside his computer. He had only just begun flipping through it when there came a knock at the door. “Must be, if he’s been watching the flat to see when I get home.” He waited a moment to see if John would come back to answer it, was more than a little annoyed when he didn’t, and resigned himself to opening the door on his own.

“Ins—” Sherlock began then stopped.

“My God, look at you,” the man at the door said.

Sherlock took a step back.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

“Seeing as I can do maths . . . yes.”

“Well, can I come in?”

“I don’t—” Sherlock began as John wandered in and asked, “Who is it at this time of night? Lestrade?”

“No,” said Sherlock. He stepped farther back so the two men could get a good look at one another. “John, this is Mr. Charles Whitcombe.”


End file.
